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AS         UDY  SADLIFE' 


MRS.   ABINQTON. 

IN    COLLEY  GIBBER'S   COMEDY,    "  THE   DOUBLE  GALLANT. 
DRAWING   BY   ISAAC   TAYLOR. 


C..I ' 


ECHOES 
OF  THE      * 
PLAYHOUSE 


Si    REMINISCENCE 0Fg<;3/ 


SOME  PAST  GLORI 
OF    THE    ENGLISH 

STAGE  - :    :    :    : 


BY 


EDWARD   ROBINS,   JR. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK    &    LONDON 
G.  P.   PUTNAM'S   SONS 

189? 


Copyright,  1895 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London 


•  •  •  > 

•  •    •  • 

•  •     •  •. 


•     •  • 


Ubc  Iknicfterbocfter  press,  mew  ffiorl? 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  -  PAGE 

I. — By  Way  of  Proi^oguk  .         .         .         .         i 

II.— "  IvK    ROI   S'AmUSK"  ....  22 

III. — "The  Kngi<ish  Roscius"     ...      42 

IV. — lylGHTS  lyONG   SiNCK   BxTlNGUISHKD      .         64 

V. — Thk  OivD  Re^gime:  and  thk  Nkw        .       84 

VI. — CiBBKR  AND  His  ApoIvOGy    .        .        .107 

VII. — Nkw  Masks  and  Facks        .        .        .130 

VIII. — lyOOKING   IN   AT  THE)   OpKRA  .  .       I53 

IX. — An  Actor  of  the  Oi^d  Schooi.  .  .178 

X. — An  Irish  Shyi^ock        .         .         .  .  200 

XI. — ''A  Vkry  Good  Mimic"      .         .  .  222 

XII. — The:  PAI.MY  Days  of  Garrick    .  .  243 

XIII. — A  Grkat  lyiGHT  Goes  Out         .  .  266 

XIV. — The  Sparkling  Sheridan  .         .  .  287 

XV. — Exeunt  Omnes 306 


iii 


395900 


ILI.USTRATIONS. 


Mrs.  Abington  ....         Frontispiece 

Shown  as  Lady  Sadlife  in  Colley  Gibber's  comedy, 
The  Double  Gallant.  Reproduced  from  a  Drawing 
from  life  by  Isaac  Taylor,  and  engraved  by  W. 
Walker.  1 

Nki.Iv  Gwynnk 26 

From  an  engraving  by  Wriglit,  after  the  portrait  of 
Sir  Peter  Lely. 

Mrs.  CivIVK 48 

Fragment  of  an  engraving  by  J.  Faber. 

Annk  Bracegirdi^k .70 

From  an  old  print, 

Gknti^Kman  Smith 106 

Shown  as  Captain  Plume  in  Farquhar's  comedy. 
The  Recruiting  Officer.  Drawn  by  Taylor,  engraved 
by  Walker. » 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sprangkr  Barry      .        .         .     140 
Shown  as  Bajazet  and  Sclima  in  Rowe's  tragedy  of 
Tamerlane.     From  a  Drawing  by  Roberts,  engraved 
by  Thornthwaite.^ 

Jambs  Quin 178 

After  the  painting  by  Hudson. 

»  Reproduced    from  lyowndes's  British    Theatre,  published  in   lyondon, 

1776-7. 
*  Reproduced  from  Bell's  British  Theatre,  \Tj^. 


VI  ILLUSTRATIONS, 

PAGE 

CharIvKS  Macki^in  and  Mr.  Dunstai^l  .     200 

As  Sir  Francis  IVronghead  and  John  Moody  in 
The  Provoked  Husband^  by  Colley  Cibber  and  Sir 
John  Vanbrugh.  From  an  engraving  by  Reading  of 
the  drawing  by  Dodd.* 

David  Garrick 222 

From  an  engraving  by  Worthington,  after  the  paint- 
ing by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 

An  Historic  Pi.aybii.Iv 230 

Facsimile  of  the  programme  for  Garrick's  first 
lyoudon  appearance. 

Mrs.  Woffington     .        .        .        .        .        .248 

From  an  old  print. 
SamukIy  Footk 270 

Shown  as  Mrs.  Cole  in  his  own  comedy  of  The 
Minor.  From  an  engraving  by  Walker  of  podd's 
drawing.* 

New  Drury  lyANE  Theatre,  Westminster  .     286 

Opened,  1794,  and  destroyed  by  fire,  1809.  From  an 
graving  by  W.  J.  White,  after  a  drawing  by  J.  Capon. 

Thomas  King 300 

Shown  as  Perez  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Rule  a 
Wife  and  Have  a  Wife.  From  an  engraving  by 
Collyer  of  Dodd's  drawing.* 

FOOTE  AS   "  F0NDI.EWIFE "  .  .  .  .316 

A  scene  from  Congreve's  comedy,  The  Old  Bachelor. 
From  a  Drawing  from  life  by  J.  J.  Barralet ;  engraved 
by  Walker.' 

Miss  Younge 322 

Shown  as  Zara  in  Congreve's  tragedy,  The  Mourn- 
ing Bride.  From  an  engraving  by  Reading  of 
Roberts's  drawing.^ 

*  Reproduced  from  TvOwndes's  British    Theatre,  published  in  Ivondon, 
1776-7. 
»  Reproduced  from  Bell's  British  Theatre,  1776. 


ECHOES  OF  THE   PLAYHOUSE 


ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE 


CHAPTER  I. 

BY  WAY   OF   PROI.OGUK. 

IT  seems  startling,  not  to  say  amusingly  paradoxical, 
to  think  that  the  English  and  American  drama  of 
to-daj^,  upon  which  a  well-meaning  clergyman  occasion- 
ally pours  forth  a  torrent  of  righteous  indignation,  and 
not  always  without  reason,  is  the  logical  development 
of  that  most  religious  of  dramatic  institutions,  the  Mira- 
cle Play.  The  far-away  period  when  pious  composi- 
tions were  acted  in  England  under  the  patronage  of 
the  church  authorities,  with  the  object  of  pointing  a 
moral  by  illustrating  the  virtues,  temptations,  and  mar- 
tyrdom of  the  saints,  was  simply  the  forerunner  of  an 
age  when  playwrights  would  concern  themselves  very 
little  as  to  the  holy  men  and  women  of  old,  but  a  great 
deal  about  heroes  and  heroines  who,  in  some  instances, 
would  prove  as  unsaintlike  as  the  most  exacting  ad- 
mirer oi  Jin  de  siecle  realism  could  desire.     From  the 

I 


li^l  '< \ '  ;  '\'l ^.CH<)ES  0^  THE  FLA  YHO USE. 

ecclesiastical,  mediaeval  atmosphere  of  the  Miracles, 
and  thence  through  a  variety  of  transitions  typified 
by  the  Morals,  Allegories,  Masks,  and  Interludes  of 
Plantagenet  times,  the  wonderful  efforts  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan authors,  the  brilliant  but  bad-tasting  comedies 
of  the  Stuart  Restoration,  and  the  more  or  less  senten- 
tious, artificial,  3^et  occasionally  delightful  pieces  of  the 
Georgian  era,  is  evolved  what  has  been  proudly  spoken 
of  as  the  nineteenth  century  drama.  A  strange  com- 
pound, certainly,  to  come  down  to  us  from  the  days  of 
cowled  monk  and  princely  bishop — a  compound  of  good 
and  bad,  of  fine  plays  and  trash,  of  innocent  "  ru- 
ral ' '  productions,  and  unhealthy  studies  in  crime,  of 
thoughtful,  sombre  works,  and  of  "farce-comedies" 
more  appropriate  to  the  circus  ring  than  the  footlights. 
These  are  the  lineal  descendants  of  so  spiritual  an 
ancestor. 

Without  attempting  to  follow  the  researches  of  anti- 
quarians as  to  the  first  appearance  of  Miracle  Plays  in 
England,  it  may  be  noted  that  they  were  given  in  Lon- 
don in  the  twelfth  century,  according  to  the  testimony 
of  William  Fitzstephen,  who  refers,  in  his  Life  of 
Thomas  a  Becket,  to  the  performance  in  the  metropolis 
of  "  holy  playes,  representations  of  miracles,  which 
holy  confessors  have  wrought,  or  representations  of 
torments."  The  subjects  were  not  cheerful,  from  the 
standpoint  of  the  modern  theatre-goer,  who  has  even 
been  known  to  fall  asleep  over  Shakespeare,  but  that 
they  were  popular  in  different  parts  of  the  kingdom  is 


BY  WAY  OF  PROLOGUE,  3 

a  matter  of  record.  In  Dunstable,  for  instance,  a  monk 
named  Geoffrey  superintended  the  presentation  of  a 
drama  dealing  with  the  life  of  St.  Katherine,  and  evi- 
dently took  upon  himself  the  exacting  duties  of  a  stage 
manager.  As  a  rule,  however,  such  management  was 
undertaken  by  laymen,  the  various  trade  guilds  of  im- 
portant towns  often  being  responsible  for  the  proper 
introduction  of  the  plays. 

The  performers  generally  appeared  on  movable  scaf- 
folds or  stages  placed  in  the  open  streets,  or  in  the 
courtyard  of  an  inn.  Some  of  these  scaffolds  consisted 
of  two  compartments,  one  above  the  other,  in  the  lower 
of  which  the  dramatis  personcs  were  obliged  to  dress, 
and  while  the  arrangement  must  have  had  its  incon- 
veniences, more  particularly  for  the  audience,  the  actors 
possibly  fared  as  comfortably  as  they  would  have  done 
in  the  average  dressing-room  of  the  American  theatre. 
Our  auditoriums  are  fitted  up  like  palaces,  but  alas  ! 
how  much  more  like  hovels  oftentimes  seem  the  quar- 
ters on  the  other  side  of  the  proscenium. 

The  Miracles  were  seldom  acted  in  England  after  the 
middle  of  the  sixteenth  century,  although  they  were 
not  absolutely  unknown  during  the  reign  of  James  I. 
Their  place  had  gradually  been  taken  by  Moralities, 
plays  that  mark  a  distinct  advance  in  dramatic  con- 
struction, and  a  purpose  on  the  part  of  the  authors 
to  get  away  from  the  purely  sacred  nature  of  the 
preceeding  works.  The  characters  of  the  Moralities 
were   allegorical   or  symbolical,  just  as  are  those  of 


4  ECHOES  OF  THE  PL  A  Y HO  USE. 

some  pantomimic  piece  where  Good  and  Evil,  Avarice, 
Generosity,  and  other  abstract  personages  are  repre- 
sented, although  it  need  hardly  be  added  that  the  com- 
parison goes  no  further.  The  Devil  figured  importantly 
in  these  outgrowths  of  the  old  Miracles,  and  entertain- 
ingly as  well,  as  he  has  continued  to  do,  in  different 
guises,  through  a  variety  of  stage  literature.  Whether 
posing  as  an  out-and-out  Mephistopheles,  with  cloven 
foot  and  horns,  or  hiding  under  the  stylish  clothes  of 
the  elegantly-gloved,  polished  villain  of  melodrama, 
Satan  has  always  rejoiced  the  heart  of  the  play  writer, 
and  hundreds  of  years  from  now,  no  doubt,  his  crush- 
ing defeat  in  the  last  act,  through  the  instrumentality 
of  the  hero,  will  be  received  with  every  manifestation 
of  delight.  In  the  Moralities  the  Devil  was  so  repre- 
sented that  he  might  create  amusement,  and  probably 
actual  merriment,  among  the  spectators,  so  that  he  may 
have  been  a  comedian  rather  than  the  cynical,  but  gen- 
tlemanly, Evil  One  of  the  Goethe  type,  or  the  majestic 
personage  pictured  by  Milton.  There  was  one  writer 
of  the  time  of  Henry  VI.  who  evidently  looked  upon 
these  plays  as  a  work  of  this  self-same  Devil,  for  he 
cried  out  against  the  frequency  of  their  performances, 
and  set  the  pace  for  a  host  of  agitators  who  have  come 
after  him,  and  to  whom  the  existence  of  the  stage  seems 
one  of  the  greatest  evils  of  a  world  wherein  they  can 
at  best  see  but  little  good. 

Companies  of  strolling  players  had  now  become  nu- 
merous, and  as  this  ' '  barnstorming  ' '  element  increased 


BY   WAY  OF  PROLOGUE.  5 

there  must  have  been  a  corresponding  falling  off  in  the 
one-time  ecclesiastical  spirit  that  imparted  dignity  and 
purity  to  the  performances.  With  the  change  came 
greater  license,  but  the  breaking  up  of  the  old  tradi- 
tions proved  beneficial  in  the  end,  paving  the  way,  as 
it  did,  for  the  glorious  Elizabethan  epoch,  when  Shakes- 
peare gave  expression  to  developments  and  changes 
which  had  been  gradually  shaping  themselves  for  three 
centuries. 

Once  that  the  sacerdotal  character  of  the  native 
drama  was  lost  the  English  kings,  who  generally  had 
a  keen  taste  for  the  pleasures  of  life,  began  to  directly 
encourage  the  showing  of  these  Moralities,  Interludes, 
or  Masques.  Henry  VII.  had  two  companies  of  play- 
ers of  his  own  ;  Henry  VIII.,  who  placed  the  amuse- 
ments of  the  Court  on  a  very  expensive  footing,  kept 
three  companies,  and  one  of  the  members  of  his  house- 
hold was  John  Heywood,  the  dramatic  author  and 
poet.  At  one  time  Heywood  received  the  munificent 
salary  of  five  pounds  a  quarter,*  but  that  was  a  regal 
recompense  compared  to  the  three  shillings  and  four 
pence  paid  to  the  writer  of  a  piece  played  at  Court  in  the 
year  1527.  For  the  aforesaid  shillings  and  pence,  this 
unfortunate  genius  was  not  only  required  to  put  the 
dialogue  into  rhyme,  but  also  had  to  have  it  both  in 
English  and  I^atin  !     Surely,  the  commercial  benefits 

*  Even  allowing  for  the  fact  that  this  meant  much  more  than 
a  similar  amount  now-a-days,  the  wage  was  hardly  a  princely 
one. 


6  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

of  the  playwright  are  greater  than  they  were  in  the 
halcyon  days  of  the  Defender  of  the  Faith. 

The  interludes  of  Heywood,  which  were  more  akin 
to  modern  comedy  than  to  the  old  Miracles  or  Morali- 
ties ;  Gammer  Gurton's  Needle^  written  by  John  Still 
(subsequently  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells),  and  a  play 
called  Ralph  Roister  Doister^  the  work  of  Nicholas 
Udall,  a  master  at  Eton,  mark  a  radical  departure  in 
the  drama  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  are  really  the 
first  examples  of  a  notable  development  from  the  an- 
cient order  of  things.  Gammer  Gurton' s  Needle  is  gen- 
erally regarded  as  the  earliest  regular  English  comedy, 
whatever  may  be  the  claims  for  the  priority  of  Udall's 
production,  and,  asSchlegel  well  says  :  "  However  anti- 
quated in  language  and  versification,  it  possesses  un- 
equivocal merit  in  the  low  comic.  The  whole  plot 
turns  on  a  lost  needle,  the  finding  of  which  is  pursued 
with  the  utmost  assiduity  ;  the  poverty  of  the  persons 
of  the  drama,  which  this  supposes,  and  the  whole  of 
their  domestic  conditions,  is  very  amusingly  portrayed, 
and  the  part  of  the  cunning  beggar  especially  is  drawn 
with  much  humor." 

A  play  having  for  the  basis  of  its  plot  the  search  for 
a  needle,  suggests  the  epoch  of  Sardou's  charming 
trifle,  A  Scrap  of  Paper  (to  use  the  Anglicized  title), 
rather  than  the  time  when  works  about  the  saints  or 
Bible  characters  were  still  familiar.  But  things  moved 
quickly  on,  the  tendency  was  less  heavenly  but  none 
the  less  upward,  and  the  religious  controversies  of  the 


BV   IVAY  OF  PROLOGUE.  J 

Reformation  were  now  reflected  in  some  of  the  inter- 
ludes in  a  way  that  would  never  have  been  dreamed  of 
in  an  earlier  century.  It  is  related  that  before  Henry 
VIII.  separated  from  the  Church  of  Rome  he  once  en- 
tertained at  Greenwich  several  French  ambassadors, 
for  whose  delectation  he  provided  a  Latin  moral  in 
which  the  reformers  were  ridiculed  and  Luther  and  his 
wife  were  represented.  The  latter  wore  a  garment  of 
red  silk,  but  whether  it  was  thereby  intended  to  rep- 
resent her  as  a  type  of  the  scarlet  woman  further  depo- 
nent sayeth  not.  Morals  espousing  the  Protestant 
cause  were  written  and  played,  however,  with  the 
result  that  an  Act  of  Parliament  was  passed  setting 
forth  that  no  one  should  "  play  in  interludes,  sing  or 
rhyme  any  matter  contrary  to  the  doctrines  of  the 
Church  of  Rome."  For  the  first  infringement  of  this 
law  a  fine  and  a  stay  in  jail  of  three  months  could  be 
imposed,  while  perpetual  imprisonment  was  one  of  the 
penalties  meted  out  for  a  repetition  of  the  offence.  It 
looks  like  the  irony  of  fate,  consequently,  to  read  that 
in  the  year  1551  the  abandoned  monastery  of  the  Black- 
friars,  which  had  been  surrendered  to  the  Crown,  or 
confiscated,  was  turned  into  a  sort  of  property-room, 
where  the  dresses  and  appliances  used  in  Court  festivi- 
ties could  be  stored. 

During  the  reigns  of  Edward  VI.  and  Queen  Mary, 
the  drama  had  a  rather  precarious  existence,  and  the 
complete  control  the  government  exercised,  at  least 
theoretically,  over  the  players  may  be  inferred  from  the 


8  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

fact  that  in  1549  it  had  been  determined,  for  political 
reasons,  to  put  a  temporary  stop  to  public  entertain- 
ments. On  the  accession  of  Queen  Mary  she  forbade 
the  introduction  into  the  plays  and  interludes  of  senti- 
ments favoring  the  Reformation,  and  one  dramatist, 
ready  to  follow  the  changing  tide,  wrote  a  piece  en- 
titled Respublica,  wherein  the  principles  of  Luther  were 
held  up  to  scorn  and  Mary  was  personified  as  Queen 
N'emesis.  Under  Elizabeth,  who  took  so  keen  an  in- 
terest in  the  drama,  actors  had  still  much  to  contend 
with,  and  the  Virgin  Queen  herself  issued  stringent  or- 
ders as  to  the  licensing  of  performances,  although  there 
is  good  reason  to  believe  that  the  strollers  of  her  time 
stood  in  need  of  regulation.  They  were  subjected, 
among  other  things,  to  the  thunders  of  the  reformed 
or  Established  Church,  for  the  great  plague  of  1563, 
when  so  many  citizens  of  London  were  stricken,  was 
used  by  Archbishop  Grindal  as  a  proper  excuse  for 
launching  forth  an  invective  against  the  poor  players. 
He  called  them  an  * '  idle  sort  of  people,  which  had  been 
infamous  in  all  good  Commonwealths,"  and  advised 
the  aboHtion  of  all  dramatic  entertainments  for  at  least 
a  year,  on  the  ground  that  attendance  at  them  was 
likely  to  spread  the  infection.  He  added  that  if  the 
performances  were  forbidden  for  all  time  '*  it  were  not 
amiss."  However,  the  plague  ran  its  woeful  course, 
the  suggestion  of  the  worthy  Archbishop  as  to  choking 
oflf  the  drama  "  forever  and  a  day"  was  not  taken,  and 
several  years  later  we  find  Elizabeth  enjoying  such  com- 


BY    WAY  OF  PROLOGUE.  9 

positions  as  The  Painful  Pilgrimage^  As  Plain  As  Can 
Be  (which  evidently  had  no  reference  to  her  personal  ap- 
pearance), Six  Fools,  Orestes,  King  of  Scots,  and  a  num- 
ber of  others,  not  forgetting  one  with  the  idyllic  title 
of  fack  and  fill. 

But  the  patronage  of  royalty  was  not  to  save  the 
Thespian  from  a  legislative  enactment  which  should  put 
him  in  the  same  rank  as  a  peddler,  or  a  bear  leader  ; 
indeed,  the  world  moves  so  slowly  that  even  yet  virtu- 
ous persons  can  be  found  who,  in  the  inmost  recesses 
of  their  little  minds,  consider  the  actor  scarcely  better 
than  a  mountebank.  Many  of  the  nobility  had  from  a 
by-gone  period  acted  as  sponsors  for  different  companies 
of  players  who  were  looked  upon  in  the  light  of  ser- 
vants by  their  respective  patrons,  and  as  the  custom 
spread  there  came  an  abuse  with  it.  Itinerants  in  no 
wise  connected  with  any  noble  house  wandered  aim- 
lessly from  town  to  town,  and  their  number  finally  be- 
came so  great  that  in  1572  a  law  was  passed  providing 
that  ' '  all  fencers,  bearwards,  common  players  in  inter- 
ludes and  minstrels  not  belonging  to  any  baron  of  this 
realm,  or  towards  any  other  honorable  personage  of 
greater  degree  ;  all  jugglers,  peddlers,  tinkers  and  petty 
chapmen,  which  said  fencers,  bearwards,  common  play- 
ers in  interludes  and  minstrels,  etc.  shall  wander  abroad 
and  not  have  license  of  two  justices  of  the  peace  at 
least  shall  be  deemed  and  dealt  with  as  rogues  and 
vagabonds. ' ' 

Yet,  while  the  unlicensed  player  was  labelled  a  va- 


lO  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

grant,  an  incident  occurred  that  was  to  signify  much  for 
the  future  respectability  of  his  craft.  This  was  the 
granting  (1574)  of  the  first  royal  patent  ever  given  to 
a  company  of  English  actors.  The  latter  were  the  ser- 
vants of  the  ambitious  Karl  of  Leicester,  among  them 
being  James  Burbage,  the  father  of  the  more  famous 
Richard  Burbage  of  happy  Shakespearian  memory. 
The  issuing  of  such  a  patent  at  once  threw  a  sort  of 
high  ofiicial  sanction  about  the  companj^  and  the  art  it 
represented,  although  the  whole  circumstance  is  more 
important  in  the  light  of  subsequent  events  than  for 
any  very  substantial  results  accruing  to  Lord  Leicester's 
dramatic  henchmen.  The  Lord  Mayor  and  Aldermen 
of  London,  who  entertained  rather  puritanical  ideas 
about  the  stage,  and  who  practically  had  the  power  to 
prevent  the  giving  of  any  play  within  their  jurisdiction, 
did  not  show  any  enthusiasm  for  the  troupe  bearing  the 
royal  patent,  and  so  James  Burbage  betook  himself  to 
the  old  monastic  precinct  of  Blackfriars,  then  outside 
the  limits  of  the  city.  He  bought  certain  rooms  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  was  having  them  altered  into  a 
permanent  playhouse,  when  a  number  of  unsympathetic 
but  influential  inhabitants  of  the  district  petitioned  the 
Privy  Council  to  put  a  peremptory  stop  to  his  enter- 
prise. The  remonstrants,  highly  indignant  that  their 
privacy  should  be  invaded  by  anything  so  vulgar  as  a 
set  of  vagabond  actors,  royal  patent  nevertheless  and 
notwithstanding,  probably  felt  very  much  as  might 
some  rich  residents  of  upper  Fifth  Avenue  were  an 


BV   WAY  OF  PROLOGUE.  II 

abattoir  to  be  erected  near  their  properties.  The  Black- 
friars  tax-payers  complained  that  Burbage's  "common 
playhouse ' '  would  '  *  grow  to  the  very  great  annoy- 
ance and  trouble,  not  only  to  all  the  nobelmen  and 
gentlemen  thereabouts  inhabiting  ' '  but  would  also  be- 
come a  general  inconvenience,  "  both  by  reason  of  the 
great  resort  and  gathering  together  of  all  manner  of 
vagrant  and  lewde  persons  that  under  color  of  resorting 
to  the  Playes  will  come  thither  and  worke  all  manner 
of  mischiefe." 

The  petition  was  not  granted,  and  the  indignation 
of  the  neighbors  must  only  have  increased  on  finding 
that  Burbage's  example  was  followed  elsewhere.  In- 
deed, two  more  places  of  dramatic  amusement  were 
erected  about  this  period,  one  called  "  The  Theatre," 
in  Shoreditch,  and  the  other,  not  far  away,  styled  "  The 
Curtain."  This  certain  indication  of  public  profligacy 
was  too  much  for  one  learned  divine,  who  preached 
a  delightfully  sensational  sermon,  wherein  he  wailed 
about  the  wickedness  of  I^ondon,  which  he  stigmatized 
as  *'  an  abhominable  and  filthie  citie,"  on  the  order  of 
**  Venus  court  and  Bacchus  kitchen,"  whatsoever  that 
might  be,  and  added  :  "  Looke  but  upon  the  common 
playes  in  London,  and  see  the  multitude  that  flocketh 
to  them  and  followeth  them  ;  behold  the  sumptuous 
theatre  houses,  a  continuall  monument  of  London's 
prodigalitie  and  follie."  From  this  horrible  vista  of 
sin  he  argued  that  :  ' '  The  cause  of  plagues  is  sinne, 
if  you  look  at  it  well,  and  the  cause  of  sinne  are  playes ; 


12  ECHOES     OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

therefore,  the  cause  of  plagues  are  playes."  All  of 
which  shows  that  the  reverend  gentleman  had  enough 
knowledge  of  logic  to  enunciate  a  syllogism,  however 
defective  might  be  his  grammar  or  his  common-sense. 
While  clergymen  used  the  pulpit  as  a  means  of  cir- 
cumventing the  wiles  of  his  Satanic  Majesty,  insidiously 
spread  through  theatrical  abomination,  there  were  lib- 
eral-minded satirists  who  extracted  humor  from  the 
protests  of  these  nervous  gentlemen.  One  writer  of 
the  day  sings  in  this  appreciative  strain  of  the  Philis- 
tianism  of  I^ondon's  Mayor  and  Aldermen : 

"  List  unto  my  dittye 
Alas  !  the  more  the  pittye, 
From  Troynovaunt's  olde  cittie 
The  Aldermen  and  Maier 
Have  drivn  eche  poore  plaier  : 
The  cause  I  will  declaier. 
They  wisely  doe  complaine 
Of  Wilson  and  Jack  Lane,* 
And  them  who  doe  maintaine, 
And  stablish  as  a  rule 
Not  one  shall  play  the  foole 
But  they — a  worthy  schoole. 
Without  a  pipe  and  taber, 
They  only  meane  to  laber, 
To  teche  eche  oxe-hed  neyber, 
This  is  the  cause  and  reason. 
At  every  tyme  and  season 
That  Playes  are  worse  than  treason." 

Any  impression  that  might  have  been  produced  by 
those  who  ridiculed   the  bigotry  of  an  inartistic  city 
corporation  was  in  part  dispelled  by  an  accident  which 
'     *  Two  members  of  James  Burbage's  company. 


BV   WAY  OF  PROLOGUE,  1% 

occurred  at  a  popular  amusement  resort  of  London,  the 
"  Paris  Garden,"  about  1583.  The  Garden  was  then 
used  for  the  baiting  of  wild  beasts,  but  as  the  populace 
never  saw  much  moral  difference  between  the  exhibi- 
tion of  bears,  lions,  and  the  like,  and  the  presentation 
of  plays,  dramatic  interests  received  a  temporary  set- ' 
back  when,  on  a  certain  Sunday,  a  gallery  of  the  build- 
ing suddenly  gave  way  and  many  of  the  occupants  were 
injured.  It  was  a  judgment  of  God,  said  one  puritani- 
cal preacher.  A  few  weeks  later,  Elizabeth,  nothing 
appalled,  is  choosing  a  company  to  be  called  the  Queen's 
Players,  and  is  enjoying  the  Pastorall  of  Phillyda  arid 
Choryn,  the  History  of  Felix  and  Philomena,  and  other 
interludes.  So  worldly  a  taste  on  the  part  of  the  sov- 
ereign must  have  been  a  cause  of  sadness  to  a  retainer 
of  Sir  Francis  Walsinghaiji  who  wrote  to  the  latter  that 
' '  the  daylie  abuse  of  stage  playes  is  such  an  offence  to 
the  Godly,  and  so  great  a  hindrance  to  the  Gospell, 
as  the  papists  do  exceeding  rejoice  at  the  bleamysh 
thereof,  and  not  without  cause,  for  every  day  in  the 
weak  the  players'  bills  are  sett  up  in  sondry  places  of 
the  cittie  .  .  .  whereas  the  wicked  fation  of  Rome 
laugheth  for  joy,  while  the  Godly  weepe  for  sorrow. 
Woe  is  me  !  the  play  houses  are  pestered  when  churches 
are  naked  ;  at  the  one  it  is  not  possible  to  get  a  place, 
at  the  other  voyde  seates  are  plentie."  Thus  we  see 
that  the  ' '  wicked  ' '  Papists  were  not  the  only  ones  who 
laughed  ;  the  worldly  managers  must  have  exulted  as 
well. 


14  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

Another  proof  of  the  popularity  of  the  London  thea- 
tre in  the  latter  half  of  the  sixteenth  century  is  fur- 
nished, unwillingly  enough,  by  the  then  rector  of  St. 
Botolph's  Church,  a  clergyman  named  Gosson.  He 
was  the  author  of  a  book  called  The  School  of  Abuse , 
in  which  he  remarked,  among  sundry  interesting  things ; 
*  *  In  our  assemblies  at  plays  in  London  you  shall  see 
such  heaving  and  shouting,  such  pitching  and  shoulder- 
ing to  sit  by  women,  such  care  for  their  garments,  that 
they  be  not  trodden,  such  eyes  to  their  laps  that  no 
chips  light  on  them,  such  pillows  to  their  backs  that 
they  take  no  hurt,  such  masking  in  their  ears,  I  know 
not  what  ;  such  giving  their  pippins  to  pass  the  time  ; 
such  playing  at  foot-saunt  without  cards,  such  ticking, 
such  toying,  such  smiling,  such  winking  and  such 
manning  them  home  when  the  sports  are  ended,  that 
it  is  a  right  comedy  to  mark  their  behaviour." 

Fair  theatre-goers  of  the  olden  time,  you  must  have 
had  much  more  to  answer  for  than  the  wearing  of 
large  hats  ! 

All  this  while  the  profession  of  the  player  was  ap- 
proaching a  more  legitimate  and  enduring  basis.  Instead 
of  inn-yards  and  open  thoroughfares  the  actors  now 
had  regular  houses  in  which  to  display  their  talents, 
and  it  is  supposed  that  between  the  years  1570  and 
1600  at  least  eleven  places  of  amusement  were  con- 
structed in  London.  The  most  important  of  these, 
from  historic  association,  was  the  Globe  Theatre,  occu- 
pied, as  it  was,  by  the  company  of  which  Shakespeare 


BV   WAY  OF  PROLOGUE.  1 5 

was  a  member.  Here  and  at  the  Blackfriars  Theatre 
which  was  controlled  by  the  same  company,  many  of  the 
poets'  plays  had  their  initial  productions,  under  the 
direction  of  Richard  Burbage.  The  latter  was  a  much 
better  actor  than  Shakespeare,  who  appears  to  have 
been  a  "  utility  man,"  rather  than  a  leading  one.  In- 
deed, tradition  has  it  that  in  Hamlet  the  author  merely 
played  the  Ghost,  and  that  in  As  You  Like  It  he  chose 
the  faithful  Adam  rather  than  the  attractive  Orlando. 

The  Globe  has  been  described  as  a  massive  structure, 
destitute  of  architectural  ornament  and  without  win- 
dows in  the  outer  wall.  The  pit  was  open  to  the  sky, 
and  the  actors  performed  by  daylight  ;  the  scene  had 
no  other  decoration  than  wrought  tapestry.  In  the 
background  was  a  stage,  a  sort  of  balcony,  which 
served  for  various  purposes  and  signified  all  manner  of 
things  according  to  the  circumstances.  The  players 
appeared,  with  rare  exceptions,  in  the  dress  of  their 
time,  or  at  the  most  distinguished  by  high  feathers  on 
their  hats  or  roses  on  their  shoes.  The  chief  means  of 
disguise  were  false  hair  and  beards  and  occasionally 
even  masks.  The  famous  playhouse  was  destroyed 
by  fire  in  1613,  during  the  performance  oi  Henry  VHL, 
presumably  Shakespeare's  play  of  that  name.  As  Sir 
Henry  Wotton  related  shortly  after  the  event,  in  a 
letter  to  his  nephew,  "  the  King's  players  had  a  new 
play  called  All  Is  True,  representing  some  principal 
pieces  of  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  which  was  set 
forth  with  many  extraordinary  circumstances  of  pomp 


1 6  ECHOES  OP   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

* 
and  majesty  even  to  the  matting  of  the  stage  ;  the 

knights  of  the  order,  with  their  Georges  and  Garter, 
the  guards  with  their  embroidered  coats  and  the  hke  : 
sufficient,  in  truth,  within  a  while,  to  make  greatness 
very  familiar,  if  not  ridiculous.  Now  King  Henry 
making  a  mask  at  the  Cardinal  Wolsey' s  house,  and 
certain  cannons  being  shot  off  at  his  entry,  some  of 
the  paper  or  other  stuff  wherewith  one  of  them  was 
stopped,  did  light  on  the  thatch,  where,  being  thought 
at  first  but  an  idle  smoke,  and  their  eyes  more  atten- 
tive to  the  show,  it  kindled  inwardly,  and  ran  round 
like  a  train,  consuming,  within  less  than  an  hour,  the 
whole  house  to  the  very  grounds.  This  was  the  fatal 
period  of  that  virtuous  fabric  wherein  yet  nothing  did 
perish  but  wood  and  straw,  and  a  few  forsaken  cloaks  ; 
only  one  man  had  his  breeches  set  on  fire,  that  would 
perhaps  have  broiled  him,  if  he  had  not,  by  the  benefit 
of  a  provident  wit,  put  it  out  with  bottle  ale." 

Bottle  ale  .saved  the  man's  breeches,  but  it  could  not 
prevent  the  destruction  of  the  Globe,  which  came  to 
an  untimely  end  through  an  excess  of  realistic  display 
— a  fact  worth  remembering  in  these  later  days,  when 
stage  pageants  are  looked  upon  as  essentially  modern 
innovations.  "  Rare  "  Ben  Jonson,  who  is  said  to  have 
been  an  eye-witness  of  the  fire,  thus  alludes  to  it  in  his 
Execration  Upon  Vulcan  : 

"  But,  O,  those  reeds  !  thy  mere  disdain  of  them 
Made  thee  beget  that  cruel  stratagem, 
Which  some  are  pleased  to  style  but  thy  mad  pranlc. 


BY    WAY  OF  PROLOGUE,  I^ 

Against  the  Globe,  the  glory  of  the  Bank  : 

Which,  though  it  were  the  fort  of  the  whole  parish, 

Flanked  with  a  ditch,  and  forc'd  out  of  a  marish, 

I  saw  with  two  poor  chambers  taken  in, 

And  raz'd,  ere  thought  could  urge,  this  might  have  been." 

The  theatre  was  rebuilt  shortly  afterward,  but  the 
historical  memories  cluster  altogether  about  the  old 
structure,  rather  than  the  new. 

James  I.  showed  a  sincere  interest  in  the  drama,  and 
had  a  decided  admiration  for  Shakespeare,  to  whom  he 
is  believed  to  have  addressed  a  letter  with  his  own  royal 
hand.  Shortly  after  ascending  the  throne  of  England  he 
granted  a  license  to  the  actors  of  the  Globe  and  Black- 
friars,  including  by  name  lyawrence  Fletcher,  William 
Shakespeare,  Richard  Burbage,  Augustine  Phillippes, 
and  others,  whom  he  authorized  to  be  known  from  that 
time  as  the  King's  Players.  They  were  allowed  to 
give  "  Comedies,  tragedies,  histories,  interludes,  mor- 
als, pastorals  and  stage  plays ' '  throughout  the  king- 
dom. James  manifested  his  love  of  theatricals  in 
many  other  ways,  and  his  gay  Queen,  Anne  of  Den- 
mark, was  wont  to  act  in,  and  manage,  some  of  the 
masks  held  at  Court,  but  his  enthusiasm  did  not  pre- 
vent his  exercising  a  sort  of  censorship  over  the  pieces 
that  were  brought  out  during  his  reign.  On  one 
occasion  the  drama  of  Eastward^  Ho  !  gave  offence  to 
the  King  because  several  passages  reflected  on  the 
Scotch,  and  the  order  went  forth  to  arrest  the  authors. 
Ben  Jonson  had  been  concerned  in  the  writing  of  the 


l8  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

inhibited  play,  and  although  he  was  not  molested  he 
took  the  ground  that  he  was  as  guilty  as  the  other  two 
authors,  whom  he  voluntarily  accompanied  to  prison. 
The  report  went  abroad  that  Jonson  and  his  colleagues 
would  have  their  ears  cut  off,  and  it  is  recorded  that 
the  poet's  mother,  at  an  entertainment  given  on  their 
discharge  from  durance  vile,  showed  her  son  ' '  a  paper 
which  she  designed,  if  the  sentence  had  taken  effect, 
to  have  mixed  with  his  drink,  and  it  was  strong  and 
lusty  poison  ;  to  show  that  she  was  no  churl  she  de- 
signed to  have  first  drank  of  it  herself."  What  a 
grand  tragedy  the  sensitive  old  dame  would  have 
evolved  had  the  loyal  Ben  actually  been  deprived  of 
his  ears. 

While  there  is  good  reason  to  believe  that  Shakes- 
peare's comedies  and  tragedies  were  appreciated  during 
his  lifetime  it  is  clear  that  the  efforts  of  some  of  his  con- 
temporaries were  not  received  with  any  vast  amount  of 
favor.  Certainly  it  is  safe  to  make  such  an  inference 
from  the  critical  sentiments  of  a  theatre-goer  of  the  time 
who  writes  to  a  friend :  ' '  They  have  plays  at  Court 
every  night,  both  holidays  and  working  days,  wherein 
they  show  great  patience,  being  for  the  most  part  such 
poor  stuff  that  instead  of  delight  they  send  the  audi- 
tory away  with  discontent."  The  sentence  may  be 
involved,  but  it  is  to  the  point,  as  is  also  his  further 
observation  :  "  Indeed,  our  poet's  brains  and  inven- 
tions are  grown  very  dry,  insomuch,  that  of  five  new 
plays  there  is  not  one  that  pleases,  and  therefore  they 


BY   WAY  OF  PROLOGUE,  I9 

are  driven  to  furbish  over  their  old,  which  stand  them 
in  best  stead  and  bring  them  most  profit. ' '  No  wonder, 
if  the  old  plays  were  those  of  Shakespeare,  whose  name 
never  spelt  ruin  at  that  early  period. 

Charles  I.  was  well  disposed  toward  the  drama,  while 
the  Puritans  had  anything  but  kindly  feelings  for  it, 
and  as  a  consequence  its  exponents  had  a  peculiar  time 
of  it  during  the  career  of  the  ill-fated  monarch  and 
were,  before  his  death,  practically  prevented  from  act- 
ing. Queen  Henrietta  Maria  superintended  the  per- 
formance of  a  pastoral  one  Christmas  tide  and  even 
condescended  to  take  part  therein  herself,  so  that  there 
was  great  indignation  in  royal  circles  shortly  afterward 
when  William  Prynne  published  his  celebrated  tirade 
against  the  stage.  Histriomastix ,  the  Player' s  Scourge, 
was  the  awe-inspiring  name  of  the  book,  and  its  author 
met  with  scant  mercy  at  the  hands  of  the  government. 
He  was  brutally  punished  for  his  boldness  in  assailing 
a  profession  upon  which  royalty  had  smiled,  being 
placed  in  the  pillory,  deprived  of  part  of  his  ears,  fined 
five  thousand  pounds,  and,  among  incidental  penalties, 
sentenced  to  imprisonment  for  life.  Prynne  was  vSent 
to  the  Fleet,  where  he  seems  to  have  accepted  his  fate 
with  calmness  and  a  moderate  amount  oi  sang  froid. 
I^ater  on  he  had  his  own  triumph,  for  he  was  released 
by  order  of  the  L,ong  Parliament  and  became,  for  the 
nonce,  quite  a  hero.  While  in  the  Fleet  he  must  have 
solaced  himself  with  many  comfortable  reflections 
about  the  adversity  attending  upon  the  ' '  rogues  and 


20  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

vagabonds ' '  of  the  stage,  and  nothing,  possibly,  gave 
him  greater  delight  that  the  remembrance  of  the  year 
1629,  when  a  company  of  French  artists,  men  and 
women,  appeared  at  the  Blackfriars  Theatre.  This  was 
the  first  attempt  made  in  England  to  popularize  female 
players,  for  all  feminine  parts  were  then  taken  by  boys 
or  young  men,  and  the  innovation  proved  emphatically 
unsuccessful,  at  least  temporarily.  The  adventurous 
actresses,  or  '  *  monsters ' '  as  Master  Prynne  ungallantly 
calls  them,  were  hissed  off  the  stage,  pelted  with  pip- 
pins, and  otherwise  poorly  treated,  and  the  author  of 
the  Histrioniastix  has  stigmatized  the  affair  as  '  *  unwom- 
anish,"  as  well  as  "impudent,  shameful"  and  "grace- 
less." It  may  have  been  impudent,  seeing  that  the 
British  public  is  prone  to  look  upon  any  change  from 
the  established  order  of  things  as  more  or  less  of  an 
impertinence,  but  when  you  call  a  coterie  of  French 
actresses  "  graceless  "  we  must  differ  with  you.  Master 
Prynne. 

The  day  was  now  approaching  when  neither  French 
women  nor  English  actors  would  be  allowed  to  amuse 
the  public.  As  early  as  1642  Parliament  ordered  the 
suppression  of  stage  performances  throughout  the  king- 
dom '*  during  these  calamitous  times,"  and  six  years 
later  the  House  of  Commons  enacted  that  all  players 
were  rogues,  as  defined  by  statutes  of  the  reigns  of 
Elizabeth  and  James  ;  that  the  I^ord  Mayor,  justices  of 
the  peace,  and  sheriffs  might  demolish  all  stage  galler- 
ies, seats,  and  boxes  ;  that  players  who  persisted  in  fol- 


BY   WAY  OF  PROLOGUE.  21 

lowing  their  profession  should  be  publicly  whipped  ; 
and  that  any  person  witnessing  a  theatrical  entertain- 
ment should  be  fined  five  shillings.  As  this  Pharasaical 
process  did  not  have  all  the  results  intended,  a  Provost 
Marshal  was  appointed  for  the  purpose  of  seizing  upon 
ballad-singers  and  prohibiting  plays,  in  addition  to 
other  congenial  duties. 

And  now  the  unfortunate  actors,  hounded,  from 
pillar  to  post  and  unable  to  even  acknowledge  their 
calling,  much  less  to  pursue  it,  drifted  into  other  occu- 
pations. Some  of  them  became  soldiers,  some  took  up 
trades,  and  many  of  them,  no  doubt,  were  never  more 
heard  of  or  thought  of  by  the  public  they  had  pleased 
so  well.  They  had  fallen  upon  evil  days,  these  light- 
hearted  mummers,  and  they  would  find  that  the  Com- 
monwealth did  not  mend  matters,  but  a  few  of  them 
would  yet  return  to  the  boards  in  the  merry  beginning 
of  the  Restoration,  and  act  as  a  connecting  link  between 
the  ancient  rigime  and  the  new. 


CHAPTER  II. 

*'  I,K  ROI  S'AMUSK." 

DOUGHTY  Oliver  Cromwell  struts  his  time  upon 
the  stage  of  history  ;  his  unambitious  son 
Richard  succeeds  to  the  Protectorship  and  then  gladly 
relinquishes  the  responsibility,  and  finally  Charles  II., 
"  who  never  said  a  foolish  thing  nor  ever  did  a  wise 
one,"  has  the  good  sense,  nevertheless,  to  return  to  his 
kingdom  at  the  right  moment.  The  English  people 
have  tired  of  the  Commonwealth,  if,  indeed,  they  ever 
cared  for  it,  and  the  witty  sovereign,  with  his  bril- 
liant, dissolute  retinue  of  courtiers,  is  received  with 
open  arms.  It  is  the  honeymoon  of  the  Restora- 
tion, when  the  jester,  capped  and  belled,  is  abroad  in 
the  land,  in  spirit  at  least,  and  the  nation,  rebound- 
ing from  the  hypocrisy  of  the  Roundheads,  is  wait- 
ing with  childish  eagerness  to  be  amused.  Men  once 
more  begin  to  think  of  the  poor  players  who  had 
been  so  ill  bestowed  during  the  past  few  years.  In- 
deed Rhodes,  the  one-time  prompter  of  the  Blackfriars, 
and  more  lately  a  prosaic  bookseller,  had  hastened 
off  to  General  Monk  in  the  latter  part  of  1659  and 
obtained  permission  to  open  a  theatre  in  the  Cockpit, 

22 


''  LE  Roi  s' amuse:'  23 

Drury  I^ane.  But  the  keynote  to  the  dramatic  Hfe 
of  King  Charles'  reign  is  struck  when,  a  little  later, 
that  mirth-loving  monarch  gives  his  sacred  permission 
for  the  erection  of  two  theatres,  one  in  the  self-same 
Drury  I^ane,  under  the  management  of  Thomas  Killi- 
grew,  who  has  what  is  known  as  the  ''  King's  Com- 
pany," and  the  other  in  Salisbury  Court,  where  Sir 
William  Davenant  directs  the  fortunes  of  the  "  Duke 
of  York's  Company."  What  a  host  of  memories  and 
anecdotes  the  names  of  these  two  famous  troupes  call 
up.  Killigrew,  who  has  been  dubbed  the  jester  of 
King  Charles  II.,  had  been  a  page  of  the  unfortunate 
Charles  I.,  and  accompanied  the  son  into  exile.*  He 
had  a  merry  wit,  and  became  the  boon  companion  of 
his  new  master  when  happier  days  dawned  on  the 
House  of  Stuart.  What  more  appropriate,  therefore, 
than  that  this  purveyor  to  the  royal  amusement,  this 
whimsical  groom  of  the  Bed  Chamber,  should  undertake 
the  direction  of  a  theatre  wherein  the  King  was  to  pass 
many  a  pleasant  hour  and  draw  inspiration  for  some 
of  his  most  serious  amours.  So  we  find  that  the  '  *  new 
Theatre  in  Drury  I<ane  "  was  opened  in  1663  by  "  His 
Majesty's  Company  of  Comedians,"  when  was  enacted 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  comedy  of  The  Humorous 
Lieutenant,  with  a  cast  including  Charles  Hart,  Major 
Mohun,  Mr.  Wintersel,  Mr.  Byrt,  Mr.  Clun,  and  Mrs. 

*  For  some  mysterious  reason  Dibdin  insists  that  Killigrew 
the  manager  was  Henry,  and  not  Thomas  Killigrew,  but  all  the 
facts  are  against  so  wild  a  theory. 


24  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

Marshall.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  the  perform- 
ance began  at  3P.M.  "exactly"  and  that  the  prices 
of  admission  were  :  boxes,  four  shillings  ;  pit,  two  shill- 
ings six  pence  ;  middle  gallery,  one  shilling  six  pence, 
and  upper  gallery,  one  shilling. 

The  mention  of  Mistress  Marshall  as  one  of  the  com- 
pany shows  that  the  innovation  of  having  women  on 
the  stage,  which  had  been  so  frowned  upon  when  the 
be-pippined  French  actresses  had  appeared  a  few  years 
before,  was  now  an  accepted  fact,  and  that  the  days 
when  handsome  youths  played  feminine  roles  were  fast 
passing  away.  There  was  Charles  Hart,  for  instance, 
who  was  now  essajdng  the  essentially  masculine  char- 
acter of  Demetrius  in  The  Humorous  Lieutenant,  when 
as  a  boy  this  talented  grandnephew  of  Shakespeare  had 
impersonated  women.  Hereafter  he  was  to  figure  in 
such  roles  as  Brutus,  Othello,  and  Alexander  the  Great, 
and  to  inspire  the  not  very  creditable  affections  of  the 
notorious  but  beautiful  Lady  Castlemaine,  to  whom  our 
old  friend,  Samuel  Pepys,  Esq.,  F.  R.  S.,  so  often  and 
lovingly  refers  in  his  diary. 

*'  To  the  King's  playhouse,"  says  Mr.  Pepys,  under 
date  of  April  7,  1668,  *'and  there  saw  The  English 
Monsieur  (sitting  for  privacy  sake  in  an  upper  box)  : 
the  play  hath  much  mirth  in  it  as  to  that  particular 
humor.  After  the  play  done  I  down  to  Knipp,*  and 
did  stay  her  undressing  herself,  and  there  saw  the  sev- 
eral players,  men  and  women,  go  by  ;  and  pretty  to  see 
*  An  actress  belonging  to  the  King's  Company, 


''  LE   ROI  S' AM  USE."  2$ 

how  strange  they  are  all,  one  to  another,  after  the  play 
is  done.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Knipp  tells  me  that  my  Lady 
Castlemaine  is  mightily  in  love  with  Hart,  of  their 
house  ;  and  he  is  much  with  her  in  private,  and  she 
goes  to  him  and  do  give  him  many  presents  ;  and  that 
the  thing  is  most  certain,  and  Beck  Marshall  only  privy 
to  it,  and  the  means  of  bringing  them  together,  which 
is  a  very  odd  thing  ;  and  by  this  means  she  is  even 
v/ith  the  King's  love  to  Mrs.  Davis." 

A  greater  *' boy  actress  "  than  Hart  had  ever  been 
was  Edward  Kynaston,  a  member  of  the  Duke  of 
York's  Company,  and  "  the  last  beautiful  youth  who 
figured  in  petticoats  on  the  stage. ' '  He  was  an  unu- 
sually handsome  man,  even  in  old  age,  and  appears  to 
have  made  an  admirable  player  of  regal  parts  when  he 
abandoned  the  line  of  acting  in  which  he  had  once  won 
such  fame,  "  The  loveliest  lady  that  ever  I  saw  in  my 
life  ' '  is  the  way  in  which  Pepys  speaks  of  his  perform- 
ance in  T/ie  Loyall  Subject^  and  Colley  Gibber  says, 
in  referring  to  him  :  ' '  Though  women  were  not  ad- 
mitted to  the  stage  till  the  return  of  King  Charles,  yet 
it  could  not  be  so  suddenly  supplied  with  them  but  that 
there  was  still  a  necessity,  for  some  time,  to  put  the 
handsomest  young  men  in  petticoats — which  Kynaston 
was  then  said  to  have  worn  with  success,  particularly 
in  the  part  of  Kvadne  in  The  Maid' s  Tragedy^  which 
I  have  heard  him  speak  of ;  and  which  calls  to  my 
mind  a  ridiculous  distress  that  arose  from  these  sort  of 
shifts  which  the  stage  was  then   put  to,      The  King 


26  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

coming  a  little  before  his  usual  time  to  a  tragedy  found 
the  actors  not  ready  to  begin,  when  his  Majesty,  not 
choosing  to  have  as  much  patience  as  his  good  subjects, 
sent  to  them  to  know  the  meaning  of  it,  upon  which 
the  master  of  the  company  came  to  the  box,  and,  rightly 
judging  that  the  best  excuse  for  their  default  would  be 
the  true  one,  fairly  told  his  Majesty  that  the  queen  was 
not  shaved  yet  ;  the  King,  whose  good  humor  loved  to 
laugh  .at  a  jest  as  well  as  to  make  one,  accepted  the 
excuse,  which  served  to  divert  him  till  the  male  queen 
could  be  effeminated.  In  a  word,  Kynaston  at  that 
time  was  so  beautiful  a  youth  that  the  ladies  of  quality 
prided  themselves  in  taking  him  with  them  in  their 
coaches  to  Hyde  Park  in  his  theatrical  habit,  after  the 
play  ;  which  in  those  days  they  might  have  sufficient 
time  to  do,  because  plays  then  were  used  to  begin  at 
four  o'clock,  the  hour  that  people  of  the  same  rank  are 
now  going  to  dinner. ' ' 

As  the  boys  in  petticoats  were  disappearing,  the 
women,  who  sometimes  acted  in  petticoats  and  as  often 
turned  the  tables  on  their  masculine  predecessors  by 
posing  on  the  stage  as  elegant  young  men,  were  fast 
giving  to  the  theatre  a  prestige — and,  in  some  instances, 
an  unsavory  reputation — which  it  had  never  enjoyed 
before.  One  of  the  most  notorious,  and  fascinating 
actresses  of  that  or  later  years  was  ' '  pretty  witty  Nell ' ' 
Gwynne,  who  first  came  into  prominence  in  1665,  when 
she  appeared  at  Drury  L<ane  in  Dryden's  play  of  The 
Indian  Emperor.     She  was  then  but  fifteen  years  old, 


NELL  QWYNNE. 

FROM  AN  ENGRAVING  BY  WRIGHT,  AFTER  THE  PAINTING  BY  SIR  PETER  LELY. 


''LB  Roi  s' amuse:*  27 

and  had  been  brought  out  at  the  instigation  of  Hart, 
who  finding  her  serving  as  an  orange  girl  in  the  front 
of  the  house,  was  attracted  by  her  beauty  and  charm 
of  manner.  So  she  was  instructed  in  the  rudiments  of 
acting  by  Shakespeare's  kinsman  and  the  actor  Lacey 
(who  became  so  distinguished  as  a  comedian  that 
Charles  II.  had  his  portrait  painted  in  three  different 
characters)  and  soon  showed  herself  to  be  an  apt  pupil. 
There  have  been  many  pictures  of  their  protSgee,  but 
one  representing  her  as  a  charming,  fair-haired  woman 
with  blue  eyes  of  the  laughing  order  and  a  turned-up, 
piquante  nose,  seems  to  be  most  in  accord  with  what 
one  reads  of  this  merry,  kind-hearted  creature,  upon 
whom  the  frailties  of  human  nature  and  the  opinions 
of  a  world,  which  as  often  condemned  as  it  admired 
her,  weighed  so  lightly. 

Poor  Nell  soon  caught  the  fanc}^  of  the  town,  and 
heading  the  popular  wave  that  wafted  her  so  speedily 
into  prosperity  was  the  pleasure- seeking  monarch  him- 
self, with  whom  the  history  of  this  actress  is  so  inevitably 
associated.  Her  birth  was  obscure,  her  father  had  been 
either  a  fruiterer,  as  some  say,  or  a  captain,  but  be  that 
as  it  may,  Eleanor  Gwynne  became  the  ancestress  of  a 
semi-royal  line  represented  by  the  Dukes  of  St.  Albans, 
and  was  one  of  several  famous  players  whose  blood  runs 
in  the  veins  of  English  peers  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

* '  To  the  King's  House,"  writes  the  faithful  Admiralty 
Secretary,  "  and  there  saw  The  Humorous  Lieutenant, 
a  silly  play,  I  think  ;  only  the  spirit  in  it  that  grows 


28  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

very  tall  and  then  sinks  again  to  nothing,  having  two 
heads  breeding  upon  one  ;  and  then  Knipp's  singing  did 
please  us.  Here  in  a  box  above  we  spied  Mrs.  Pierce, 
and  going  out  they  called  us,  and  so  we  staid  for  them, 
and  Knipp  took  us  all  in,  and  brought  to  us  Nelly,  a 
most  pretty  woman,  who  acted  the  great  part  Caelis  to- 
day very  fine,  and  did  it  pretty  well ;  I  kissed  her,  and 
so  did  my  wife,  and  a  mighty  pretty  soul  she  is." 
And  again,  later  on,  we  read  : 

"After  dinner  with  my  wife  to  the  King's  house, 
to  see  The  May  den  Queene,  a  new  play  of  Dryden's, 
mightily  commended  for  the  regularity  of  it,  and  the 
strain  and  wit ;  and  the  truth  is,  there  is  a  comical  part 
done  by  Nell,  which  is  Florimel,  that  I  never  can  hope 
ever  to  see  the  like  done  again  by  man  or  woman. 
The  King  and  Duke  of  York  were  at  the  play.  But  so 
great  performance  of  a  comical  part  was  never,  I  be- 
lieve, in  the  world  before  as  Nell  do  this  both  as  a  mad 
girle,  then  most  and  best  of  all  when  she  comes  in  like 
a  young  gallant ;  and  hath  the  motions  and  carriage  of 
a  spark  the  most  that  ever  I  saw  any  man  have.  It 
makes  me,  I  confess,  admire  her. ' '  And  Mr.  Pepys  keeps 
on  admiring  her  to  the  end  of  the  chapter,  with  a  keen 
eye  to  her  prettiness  and  an  anecdote  here  and  there 
that  makes  her  stand  forth  with  all  the  Meissonier-like 
clearness  of  a  carefully  executed  picture.  He  sees  her 
loitering  at  her  lodging  door  in  Drury  I^ane  "in  her 
smock  sleeves  and  bodice,"  and  seeming  "a  mighty 
pretty  creature, ' '  and  he  meets  her  behind  the  scenes, 


''  LE  ROi  s' amuse:'  29 

where  her  levity  and  looseness  of  conversation  (once 
he  heard  her  cursing  at  the  smallness  of  the  audience) 
leave  a  somewhat  unpleasant  impression  on  him.  Yet 
he  thinks  her  delightful,  in  spite  of  it  all,  and  so  did 
many  more,  including  Charles  Stuart,  who  doubtless 
saw  in  her  worst  phases  only  the  subjects  for  half  a 
dozen  royal  jests.  He  loved  her  in  his  careless,  con- 
temptuous way,  and  when  he  was  dying  prayed  his 
brother  not  to  let  poor  Nellie  starve. 

Rochester  has  summed  up  her  life  in  these  clever  lines  : 

"  The  orange  basket  her  fair  arm  did  suit, 
Laden  with  pippins  and  Hesperian  fruit  ; 
This  first  step  raised,  to  the  wond'ring  pit  she  sold 
The  lovely  fruit,  smiling  with  streaks  of  gold. 
Fate  now  for  her  did  its  whole  force  engage. 
And  from  the  pit  she  mounted  to  the  stage  ; 
There  in  full  lustre  did  her  glories  shine. 
And  long  eclips'd,  spread  forth  their  light  divine  : 
There  Hart  *  and  Rowley's  soul  she  did  ensnare. 
And  made  a  King  a  rival  to  a  player." 

What  a  company  must  have  been  the  jesting  Killi- 
grew's,  in  those  "  palmy  "  seasons  when  ladies  of  qual- 
ity often  appeared  at  the  theatre  in  masks,  to  avoid 
blushing  over  the  positive  indecencies  in  many  of  the 
comedies,  and  when  Evelyn  complains  that  *'  plays  are 
now  become  with  us  a  licentious  excess,  and  a  vice, 
and  need  severe  censors."  The  moral  atmosphere  be- 
hind the  scenes  was  stifling,  and  the  conversation  on 
the  stage  not  a  bit  more  healthy  ^t  times,  but  the  lax- 

*  Hart  was  madly  in  love  with  his  pupil. 


30  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

ness  of  the  age  could  not  affect  the  genius  or  the  fascina- 
tion of  the  players.  Take,  for  example,  the  beautiful 
Mistress  Hughes,  who  made  her  abode  with  Prince 
Rupert,  and  who  spent  his  money  so  lavishly  that  at 
his  death  it  was  found  necessary  to  sell  his  jewels  by 
lottery,  in  order  to  pay  his  debts.  Then  came  Joseph 
Haines,  Cartwright,  Clun,  and  others  no  less  distin- 
guished, not  forgetting  that  "little  man  of  mettle," 
Major  Mohun,  whose  tragic  flights  of  eloquence  were 
thought  so  much  of  by  Court  and  town.  Haines,  who 
appears  to  have  been  a  man  of  considerable  originalitj^ 
and  humor,  was  once  ordered  by  Hart,  as  chief  of  the 
house  or  stage  manager,  to  dress  for  one  of  the  senators, 
in  Cataline's  Conspiracy.  This  was  nothing  more 
or  less  than  acting  as  a  ''super,"  and  as  Haines  en- 
joyed the  then  lavish  salary  of  fifty  shillings  a  week, 
he  naturally  considered  himself  exempt  from  any  such 
assignment.  Hart  ungenerously  insisted,  none  the 
less  obstinate,  no  doubt,  because  he  and  Haines  hap- 
pened to  be  on  bad  terms,  and  so  the  latter  had  to  obey 
with  the  poorest  kind  of  grace.  But  he  was  to  be  re- 
venged for  the  slight  put  upon  him.  "  He  gets  a 
scaramouch  dress,  a  large  full  ruff,  makes  himself 
whiskers  from  ear  to  ear,  puts  on  a  large  merry  Andrew's 
cap,  a  short  pipe  in  his  mouth,  a  little  three-legged 
stool  in  his  hand,  and  in  this  manner  follows  Mr.  Hart 
on  the  stage,  sets  himself  down  behind  him,  and  begins 
to  smoke  his  pipe,  laugh  and  point  at  him,  which  comi- 
cal figure  put  all  the  house  in  an  uproar,  some  laugh- 


"Z^   ROI  S'AMUSEr  31 

ing,  some  clapping,  and  some  hallooing.  Now  Mr. 
Hart,  as  those  who  knew  him  can  aver,  was  a  man  of 
that  exactness  and  grandeur  on  the  stage,  that  let  what 
would  happen,  he  'd  never  discompose  himself  or  mind 
anything  but  what  he  then  represented,  and  had  a 
scene  fallen  behind  him,  he  would  not  at  that  time  look 
back  to  see  what  was  the  matter,  which  Joe  knowing, 
remained  still  smoking  ;  the  audience  continued  laugh- 
ing, Mr.  Hart  acting  and  wondering  at  this  unusual 
occasion  of  their  mirth — sometimes  thinking  it  some 
disturbance  in  the  house  ;  again,  that  it  might  be  some- 
thing amiss  in  his  dress.  At  last,  turning  himself 
towards  the  scenes,  he  discovered  Joe  in  the  aforesaid 
posture  ;  whereupon  he  immediatelj^  goes  off  the  stage, 
swearing  he  would  never  vSet  foot  on  it  again  unless  Joe 
was  immediately  turned  out  of  doors,  which  was  no 
sooner  spoke  than  put  in  practice." 

Haines  seems  to  have  been  everything  from  a  scholar 
to  a  Bohemian  of  the  most  pronounced  type.  He  held 
a  position  at  Cambridge  University  at  one  stage  of  his 
career,  but  his  chief  claim  to  the  consideration  of  pos- 
terity lies  in  the  fact  that  he  was  a  leading  low  come- 
dian at  Drury  lyane  from  1672  to  1701,  and  made  his 
Sparkish,  in  The  Country  Wife,  one  of  the  most  popu- 
lar characters  of  the  period.  No  one  appreciated  it 
more,  possibly,  than  the  elegant  fellows  about  town 
whom  he  travestied.  When  James  II.  became  King, 
Haines  declared  his  conversion  to  the  doctrines  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church,  because  the  Virgin  Mary  had 


32  ECHOES  OE  THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

appeared  to  him  in  a  vision  and  exclaimed,  *'Joe, 
arise  !  "  but  as  this  revelation  was  looked  upon  in  the 
light  of  a  joke  and  an  amusing  example  of  poor  Joe's 
eccentricity,  he  was  not  allowed  the  benefit  of  his 
change  of  faith.  He  was  actually  made  to  recant  on 
the  stage,  before  a  large  audience,  and  announce  his 
return  to  the  Protestant  fold.  It  must  have  been  a 
remarkable  scene,  but  then  Haines  was  himself  a  re- 
markable man,  and  anything  so  bizarre  was  considered 
peculiarly  fitting. 

Yet  a  stranger  member  of  the  Drury  Lane  set  was 
Cardell  Goodman,  who  rejoiced  under  the  not  very 
savory  nickname  of  "Scum."  The  checquered  his- 
tory of  '*  Scum  "  shows  that  he  had  once  been  a  stu- 
dent at  Cambridge,  from  which  University  he  was 
expelled  for  mutilating  a  picture  of  the  curious  Chan- 
cellor of  the  institution,  the  picturesque  Duke  of  Mon- 
mouth. Like  others  who  have  failed  in  some  more 
prosaic  profession  he  went  on  the  stage,  and  made  a 
great  reputation  for  himself  as  a  promising  young  fel- 
low who  could  play  Julius  CcBsar  and  Alexander  with 
dignity  and  fervor.  He  complained  that  his  salary 
was  small,  and  that  he  could  not  dress  as  gallants  of 
his  time  should,  and  so  he  actually  took  "  to  the  road  " 
and  became  a  highwayman.  The  combination  of  art 
and  robbery  had  its  drawbacks,  and  Goodman  would 
have  ended  his  remarkable  career  on  the  gallows  had 
it  not  been  for  the  clemency  of  James  II.  The  ex- 
highwayman  was  once  heard  to  say  that  this  act  of 


''  LE   ROI  S'AMUSEr  33 

James'  ' '  was  doing  him  so  particular  an  honor,  that 
no  man  could  wonder  if  his  acknowledgment  had  car- 
ried him  a  little  further  than  ordinary  in  the  interest 
of  that  prince.  But  as  he  had  lately  been  out  of  luck 
in  backing  his  old  master,  he  had  no  way  to  get  home 
the  life  he  was  out,  upon  his  account,  but  by  being 
under  the  same  obligations  to  King  William."  This 
rather  mysterious  remark  was  taken  to  mean  that  Good- 
man having  once  volunteered  to  assassinate  William 
of  Orange,  as  a  slight  acknowledgment  of  the  kindness 
of  James,  had  now  gone  over  heart  and  soul  to  the  in- 
terests of  the  latter' s  son-in-law,  in  order  to  secure  a 
pardon  from  the  new  sovereign.  The  rascality  of  this 
model  player  also  included  an  attempt  to  kill  two  of 
the  Duchess  of  Cleveland's  (Lady  Castlemaine's)  chil- 
dren, by  way  of  rewarding  this  fragile  peeress  for  the 
attentions  which  she  had  showered  upon  him.  The  plot 
failed,  and  "Scum,"  who  subsequently  disappeared  al- 
together, contrived  to  save  his  neck  at  the  expense  of  a 
heavy  fine. 

They  were  an  unprincipled  crew,  a  few  of  these /r^- 
tigh  of  Court  and  people.  Look  at  Moll  Davis.  She 
was  a  comedienne  in  the  Duke's  Company,  a  graceful 
dancer,  and  so  fine  a  singer  of  the  ditty.  My  Lodging 
is  on  the  Cold  Ground^  that  she  attracted  the  amorous 
attention  of  King  Charles.  Mr.  Pepys  was  pleased 
"  mightily  "  at  her  "  dancing  in  a  shepherd's  clothes," 
and  he  notes  in  one  paragraph  of  that  gossipy  diary 
that  "  Miss  Davis  is  for  certain  going  away  from  the 

3 


34  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

Duke's  house,  the  King  being  in  love  with  her  ;  and  a 
house  is  taken  for  her,  and  furnishing  ;  and  she  hath 
a  ring  given  her  already  worth  600^."  It  is  the  old, 
old  story  of  Charles  and  his  conquests,  and  so  we  are 
not  surprised  to  learn  further  on  that  once  when  Moll 
played  at  Whitehall  the  Queen,  Catharine  of  Braganza, 
rose  and  left  the  house,  or  that  the  actress  once  made 
Lady  Castlemaine  '*  look  fire  "  when  the  two  favorites 
were  together  at  the  theatre.  She  had  a  daughter  by 
Charles  who  was  named  Mary  Tudor,  and  whose  son, 
the  third  Karl  of  Derwentwater,  lost  his  head  for  too 
actively  sympathizing  with  his  relative,  the  Old  Pre- 
tender. 

Clun,  one  of  the  best  actors  of  the  King's  house,  was 
set  upon  and  murdered  one  night  while  travelling  out 
of  town  to  his  country-place.  "  The  house  will  have  a 
great  miss  of  him, ' '  quaintly  chronicles  the  ubiquitous 
Pepys.  Then  there  is  Nokes,  a  natural  actor  of  ' '  plain 
and  palpable  a  simplicity"  ;  William  Mountford,  the 
victim  of  the  famous  attempt  to  abduct  Mrs.  Brace- 
girdle;  Sanford,  styled  the  "  completest  and  most 
natural  performer  of  a  villian  that  ever  existed,"  and, 
among  others,  John  Lacey,  a  dancing-master  by  edu- 
cation, but  comedian  and  playwright  by  selection. 
This  actor  deeply  offended  his  Majest}^  on  one  occa- 
sion by  appearing  in  a  comedy  wherein  the  Court  was 
held  up  to  contempt,  and  orders  were  given  that  the 
troupe  should  stop  performing.  Charles  relented,  of 
course  (imagine  him  without  his  favorite  theatre  !),  but 


''  LE  Roi  s' amuse:'  35 

the  comedy  in  question  had  to  be  withdrawn.  *'  The 
King  mightily  angry,"  jots  down  Pepys,  "  and  it  was 
bitter  indeed,  but  very  fine  and  witty." 

Of  such  material  as  this  were  the  players  who  formed 
the  two  great  theatrical  troupes  of  the  reign  of  Charles 
II.,  and  among  whom  the  brightest  and  most  enduring 
light  was  the  noble  Betterton,  to  whose  life  the  next 
chapter  is  devoted.  The  King's  Company,  (which  had 
perhaps  the  greater  prestige,  because  some  of  its  mem- 
bers belonged  to  the  sovereign's  household  establish- 
ment, wore  an  imposing  scarlet  uniform  and  were  styled 
Gentlemen  of  the  Grand  Chamber)  entered  into  practi- 
cal competition  with  the  Duke's  Company.  Both  houses 
were  under  regulations  of  a  strict  order,  and  it  was  an 
understood  thing  that  no  play  presented  at  one  of  them 
should  be  given  at  the  rival  theatre.  Of  course,  fre- 
quent bickerings  and  internal  dissensions  occurred,  and 
some  of  them  were  passed  upon  and  dispelled  by  no 
less  august  a  person  than  the  King  himself,  who  would 
doubtless  have  made  a  much  better  manager  than  he 
did  a  ruler.  When  it  came  to  Davenant's  forces,  knotty 
problems  were  often  decided  by  the  Duke  of  York,  that 
curious  compound  of  ability  and  incompetency,  youth- 
ful licentiousness  and  latter-day  bigotry,  who  probably 
looked  upon  the  stage  as  an  attractive  plaything,  and 
nothing  more.  This  toying  with  the  drama  must  have 
been  a  delightful  pastime  for  the  two  brothers,  even  if 
they  had  but  little  sympathy  for  the  trials,  privations, 
and  struggles  of  the  actors  themselves. 


36  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

So  far  as  actual  merit  was  in  question  the  Duke's 
company,  with  the  incomparable  Betterton  at  its  head, 
may  have  been  the  finer  of  the  two  organizations,  all 
things  taken  into  consideration,  but  merit  is  a  quantity 
that  does  not  always  count  in  the  success  of  stage  per- 
formances, even  in  these  enlightened  times.  Critics 
like  to  say  that  the  best  plays  are  the  most  paying  to 
the  manager,  because  the  wish  is  more  or  less  father  to 
the  thought,  but  the  fact  remains  that  some  of  the 
flimsiest  of  pieces  have  proved  the  more  remunerative 
from  the  box-ofiice  standpoint.  Sir  William  Davenant 
may  have  reasoned  this  way  when  he  saw  that  the 
popularity  of  his  players  was  on  the  wane,  for  money 
was  a  conspicuous  factor  in  the  theatre  then,  as  it  is 
now.  Managers  are  not  necessarily  philanthropists  ; 
they  may  often  have  artistic  perceptions  and  ambitions, 
but  without  well-filled  coifers  schemes  of  elevating  the 
stage  are  likely  to  degenerate  into  '  *  such  stufi"  as 
dreams  are  made  on."  Thoughtful  youths  who  have 
started  out  to  bring  the  world  to  their  feet  through  the 
medium  of  Shakespearian  tragedy  have  ended  up  by 
convulsing  the  town  2iS  farceurs,  and  more  than  one 
well-meaning  theatre  lessee  has  turned  his  house  into 
a  variety  hall,  and  passed  the  rest  of  his  life  brooding 
over  what  he  might  have  accomplished  as  a  promoter 
of  the  legitimate. 

At  any  rate,  Davenant  decided  on  introducing  what 
the  indignant  Dibdin  says  ''was  then  and  is  at  this 
moment  the  disgrace  and  reproach  of  the  theatre. ' '    In 


"  LE  ROI  S' AMUSE."  37 

other  words  * '  operas  and  masques  took  the  place  of 
tragedies  and  comedies,  and  to  Psyche  and  Circe  yielded 
Cleopatra  and  Rosalhid.  To  see  and  to  hear  one  thing, 
and  to  think  and  to  judge  another,  and  nothing  could 
more  completely  verify  the  truth  of  this  than  what  had 
happened  to  the  King's  Company  upon  Davenant's 
bringing  forward  these  auxiliary  helps  ;  for,  though 
they  were  composed  of  performers  much  superior  to 
those  of  the  other  they  instantly  experienced  the  most 
cold  and  mortifying  neglect,  while  the  houses  and  the 
coffers  of  the  other  house  were  completely  filled  ;  nor 
did  they  ever  perfectly  recover  their  estimation  with 
the  public  nor  at  all  till  they  procured  scenery  and 
decorations  from  France  and  attacked  their  opponents 
with  their  own  weapons." 

Shakespeare  and  his  less  gifted  companions  had  given 
way,  temporarily,  to  French  gew-gaws  and  tinsel,  and 
the  town  went  crazy  over  the  importations  from  the 
land  of  the  hated  Monsieur.  Alas  !  poor  old  Dibdin  ! 
"  Go  for  masques,  go  for  operas,  go  for  spectacles  if  you 
will,"  he  wails;  "let  painting  and  music,  those  be- 
coming attendants  on  poetry,  aid  the  meritorious  labours 
of  their  lovely  sister ;  but  let  them  keep  within  their 
own  province.  I,et  us  have  magic  and  fairy-land,  and 
let  fairies  bring  about  these  transformations  to  the 
belief  of  which  our  minds  are  accommodated  ;  but  do 
not  suffer  stuffed  elephants,  pasteboard  lions  and  leath- 
ern tygers  to  train  the  car  of  a  real  hero.  I^et  us  re- 
member that  these    tricks  were  borrowed  from  our 


38  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

fantastic  neighbors  the  French  ;  and  that,  even  in 
France,  Corneille  with  all  his  reputation  never  recov- 
ered the  kick  that  was  given  to  it  by  the  necessity  he 
was  under  of  courting  an  auxiliary  in  the  Flying 
Horse." 

Sensitive  Dibdin  !  Could  you  revisit  the  glimpses  of 
the  moon  you  might  take  comfort  in  knowing  that  the 
pros  and  cons  of  stage  realism  have  been  argued  ever 
since  you  left  this  sphere  of  action,  and  occasionally 
by  men  who  look  upon  the  whole  question  as  essen- 
tially modern.  The  theatre  of  Shakespeare' s  time  was 
not,  to  be  sure,  troubled  with  an  excess  of  realism  (to 
which  fortunate  circumstance  we  doubtless  owe  the  in- 
troduction of  so  much  beautiful  imagery  in  his  works), 
but  scenic  effects  and  gorgeous  costumes,  by  no  means 
unknown  even  then,  were  soon  to  play  an  important 
part  in  the  drama. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  while  the  new  entertainments 
proved  a  welcome  change  for  a  public  which  was  pretty 
much  like  any  other  in  its  love  of  novelty,  they  dis- 
tinctly tended  to  lower  the  tone  of  the  stage,  particu- 
larly at  a  season  when  morals  on  either  side  of  the 
footlights  were  none  too  rigid,  to  speak  politely,  and 
when  the  new  order  of  production  gave  such  ample 
excuse  for  license.  One  writer,  in  comparing  the  times 
of  Shakespeare  with  those  of  the  Restoration,  observes 
that  once  ''many  people  thought  a  play  an  innocent 
diversion  for  an  idle  hour  or  two,  the  plays  themselves 
being  then  more  instructive  and  moral  ;   whereas  of 


''  LE   ROI  S' AMUSE."  39 

late  the  playhouses  are  so  extremely  pestered  with  wiz- 
ard masks,  and  their  trade  occasioning  continual  quar- 
rels and  abuses,  that  many  of  the  more  civilized  part 
of  the  town  are  uneasy  in  the  company,  and  shun  the 
theatre  as  they  would  a  house  of  scandal." 

The  popularity  of  the  Duke's  house  was  not  relished 
by  the  King's  Company,  and  an  attempt  was  made  to 
stem  the  tide  of  success  by  producing,  at  Drury  lyane, 
parodies  ridiculing  the  sumptuous  affairs  that  were 
turning  the  heads  of  the  lyondoners.  But  the  audiences 
insisted  on  having  their  heads  turned,  notwithstand- 
ing, and  the  "  Gentlemen  of  the  Grand  Chamber," 
with  their  lace  and  pretty  scarlet  uniforms,  and  their 
fair  companions,  found  themselves  in  the  position  of 
dethroned  favorites.  But  all  this  rivalry  had  an  end, 
for  in  1682,  when  Killigrew  and  Davenant  were  both 
dead,  the  two  companies  were  united,  through  the  in- 
strumentality of  Betterton,  and  began  their  joint  season 
at  the  new  Drury  lyane  Theatre. 

While  these  changes  are  going  on  Mr.  Jeremy  Collier, 
M.  A.,  is  collecting  material  for  his  Short  View  of  the  Im- 
mortality and  Profaneness  of  the  English  Stage ^  which  is 
to  create  quite  a  stir  and  send  the  author's  name  down 
to  posterity — whereby  he  has  an  advantage  over  most  of 
the  censors  of  the  drama.  In  the  preface  of  this  volume 
Mr.  Collier  announces  his  conviction  that  ' '  nothing  has 
gone  farther  in  Debauching  the  Age  than  the  Stage- 
Poets  and  Play  House."  Further  on  he  explains  : 
' '  The  business  of  plays  is  to  recommend  Vertue  and 


40        ECHOES  OF   THE  FLA  YHOUSE. 

discountenance  Vice  ;  To  shew  the  Uncertainty  of  Hu- 
mane Greatness,  the  suddain  Turns  of  Fate,  and  the 
Unhappy  Conclusions  of  Violence  and  Injustice.  'T  is 
to  expose  the  Singularities  of  Pride  and  Fancy,  to  make 
Folly  and  Falsehood  contemptible,  and  to  bring  every 
thing  that  is  111  under  Infamy  and  Neglect.  This  de- 
sign has  been  oddly  pursued  by  the  English  Stage. 
Our  Poets  write  with  a  different  view,  and  are  gone 
into  another  Interest.  'Tis  true,  were  their  intentions 
fair,  they  might  be  Serviceable  to  this  Purpose.  They 
have  in  a  great  measure  the  Springs  of  Thought  and 
Inclination  in  their  Power.  Show,  Musick,  Action 
and  Rhetorick,  are  moving  Entertainments ;  and, 
rightly  employed,  would  be  very  significant.  But 
Force  and  Motion  are  Things  indifferent,  and  the  Use 
lies  chiefly  in  the  Application.  These  Advantages  are 
now,  in  the  Enemies  Hand,  and  under  a  very  dangerous 
management.  I^ike  Cannon  seized,  they  are  pointed 
the  wrong  way  ;  and  by  the  Strength  of  the  Defence 
the  Mischief  is  made  the  greater.  That  this  complaint 
is  not  unreasonable,  I  shall  endeavor  to  prove  by  shew- 
ing the  Misbehaviour  of  the  Stage,  with  respect  to  Mo- 
rality and  Religion.  Their  I^iberties  in  the  Following 
Particulars  are  intolerable,  viz.  :  Their  Smuttiness  of 
Expression  ;  their  Swearing  Prophaneness,  and  I^ewed 
Application  of  Scripture  ;  Their  Abuse  of  the  Clergy, 
Their  making  their  top  Characters  lyibertines,  and  giv- 
ing them  Success  in  their  Debauchery." 

There  is  warrant  for  some  of  the  critical  Jeremy's 


'' LE    ROI   S' AMUSE."  4I 

Jeremiad,  but  we  are  about  to  see  the  stage  enter  upon 
an  epoch  whose  glory  shall  not  be  dimmed  for  over  a 
century,  and  in  which  there  shall  be  a  distinct  improve- 
ment in  some  of  the  characteristics  complained  of  in 
the  Short  View.  Collier  will  be  thought  of  simply  as 
a  literary  freak,  but  the  names  of  Betterton,  of  Old- 
field,  of  Woffington,  of  Garrick,  and  of  Kean  will  lin- 
ger pleasantly  in  the  world's  memory  for  many  a  day. 


CHAPTER   III. 

"the   ENGI.ISH   ROSCIUS." 

"  A  S  it  was  said  of  Brutus  and  Cassius,  that  they 
J~\^  were  the  last  of  the  Romans ;  so  may  it  be 
said  of  Mr.  Betterton,  that  he  was  the  last  of  our  tragedi- 
ans, ' '  *  wrote  one  of  his  admirers  and  biographers,  and 
his  opinion  was  shared  by  many  a  theatre-goer  who  had 
so  often  delighted  in  the  versatile  genius  of  the  greatest 
actor  of  his  age.  Thomas  Betterton,  the  Ejiglish  Ros- 
citis  as  he  was  called  by  his  contemporaries,  began  life 
under  circumstances  singularly  in  contrast  with  the 
distinction  he  was  later  to  achieve.  He  was  born  in 
Westminster  about  1635,  his  father,  Matthew  Better- 
ton,  holding  the  respectable  but  not  particularly  ex- 
alted position  of  an  under-cook  in  the  kitchen  of 
Charles  I.  As  a  lad  the  future  Roscius  was  quiet  and 
studious,  and  received  a  fairly  good  education.  Very 
little  is  known  of  his  early  years,  however,  and  there 
has  even  been  a  dispute  as  to  the  bookseller  to  whom 
he  was  apprenticed.  It  was  probably  Rhodes,  the 
whilom  prompter  and  wardrobe-keeper  of  the  Black- 
friars,  who  discreetl}^  set  up  a  book-shop  at  Charing 
*  Gildon's  Life  of  Betterton. 
42 


"772^^  ENGLISH  ROSCIUS."  43 

Cross  after  the  triumph  of  the  Puritans  had  taken  away 
the  occupation  of  the  players.  According  to  Gildon, 
in  his  so-called  Life  of  Betterton,  that  "  which  prepared 
Mr.  Betterton  and  his  fellow-prentice*  for  the  stage 
was,  that  his  master  Rhodes  having  formerly  been 
Wardrobe-keeper  to  the  King's  company  of  comedians 
in  the  Blackfriars,  on  General  Monck's  march  to  lyon- 
don,  in  1659,  with  his  Army,  got  a  license  from  the 
Powers  then  in  being,  to  set  up  a  company  of  Players 
in  the  Cockpit  in  Drury  Lane,  and  soon  made  his  com- 
pany complete,  his  apprentice,  Mr.  Betterton  for  Men's 
Parts,  and  Mr.  Kynaston  for  Women's  parts,  being  at 
the  head  of  them.  Mr.  Betterton  was  now  about  twenty- 
two  years  of  age,t  when  he  got  great  applause  by  act- 
ing in  the  Loyal  Subject,  the  Wild  Goose  Chace,  the 
Spanish  Curate,  and  many  more.  But  while  our  young 
actor  is  thus  rising  under  his  master  Rhodes,  Sir  Wil- 
liam Davenant — getting  a  Patent  of  King  Charles  II. 
for  erecting  a  company  under  the  name  of  the  Duke  of 
York's  Servants — took  Mr.  Betterton  and  all  that  acted 
under  Mr.  Rhodes  into  his  company. " 

Davenant,  after  a  more  or  less  adventurous  career 
which  included  imprisonment  in  the  Tower  and  a  nar- 
row escape  from  being  put  to  death  for  too  much  affec- 
tion for  the  Royal  cause,  found  himself  during  the  final 
years  of  the  Commonwealth  in  a  melancholy  condition 
as  to  purse,  and  so  set  about  to  fill  the  latter  by  means 

*  Kynaston. 

t  Betterton  must  have  been  about  twenty-four  years  old. 


44        ECHOES  OF   THE  FLA  YHOUSE. 

of  the  drama.  In  other  words,  he  wanted  to  start  a 
theatre,  and  though  the  scheme  was  difficult  of  accom- 
phshment,  seeing  that  ParHament  had  formerly  enacted 
such  stringent  laws  against  actors  and  those  who  patron- 
ized them,  he  obtained  sufficient  influence  with  I^ord 
Whitlocke  and  other  gentlemen  to  inaugurate  a  series 
of  performances  at  Rutland  House.  This  was  in  1656, 
and,  while  the  public  was  now  ripe  for  such  a  return  to 
first  principles,  a  vast  amount  of  tact  and  diplomacy 
had  to  be  used  by  the  venturesome  Davenant,  that  the 
authorities  should  not  put  a  stop  to  the  enterprise. 
What  he  must  observe  was  an  apparent,  if  not  an  actual 
respect  for  the  law,  and  so  long  as  he  would  do  this 
hundreds  of  I^ondoners,  secretly  worn  out  by  the  many 
absurd  restrictions  of  the  Puritans,  were  only  too  glad 
to  attend  his  entertainments.  The  introductory  piece 
*'  required  all  the  author's  wit  to  make  it  answer  differ- 
ent intentions,  for,  first,  it  was  to  be  so  pleasing  as  to 
gain  applause ;  and  next,  it  was  to  be  so  remote  from 
the  very  appearance  of  a  play  as  not  to  give  any  offence 
to  that  pretended  sanctity  which  was  then  in  fashion. 
It  began  with  music,  then  followed  a  prologue,  in  which 
the  author  banters  the  oddity  of  his  own  performance. 
The  curtain  being  drawn  up  to  the  sound  of  slow  and 
solemn  music,  there  followed  a  grave  declaration  by 
one  in  a  gilded  rostrum,  who  personated  Diogenes,  and 
whose  business  it  was  to  rail  at  and  expose  public  en- 
tertainments. Then  music  in  a  lighter  strain,  after 
which  a  person  in  the  character  of  Aristophanes,  the 


''THE  ENGLISH  ROSCIUSy  45 

old  comic  poet,  answered  Diogenes,  and  showed  the  use 
and  excellency  of  dramatic  entertainments.  The  whole 
of  the  grave  entertainment  was  concluded  by  a  song 
accompanied  with  music,  to  which  the  arguments  on 
both  sides  are  succinctly  and  elegantly  stated.  The 
.second  part  of  the  entertainment  consisted  of  two  light 
declamations  ;  the  first  by  a  citizen  of  Paris,  who  wit- 
tily rallies  the  follies  of  London  ;  the  other  by  a  citizen 
of  London,  who  takes  the  same  liberty  with  Paris  and 
its  inhabitants.  To  this  was  tacked  a  song,  and  after 
that  came  a  short  epilogue  :  the  music,  which  was  very 
good,  was  composed  by  Dr.  Coleman,  Captain  Cook, 
Mr.  Harry  Laws,  and  Mr.  George  Hudson."  * 

This  was  a  mild  sort  of  affair  that  would  not  satisfy 
modern  theatre-goers,  but  the  spectators  were  duly 
thankful  for  it,  and  their  favor  inspired  Davenant  to 
venture  further  and  produce  pieces  of  a  bolder  type. 
The  theatre  thus  started  under  precarious  auspices  at 
Rutland  House  was  practically  the  forerunner  of  the 
Duke's  Theatre  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  for  the  estab- 
lishment of  which  he  had  received  the  royal  patent. 
He  was  b}^  no  means  without  business  sagacity,  was 
Sir  William,  and  the  articles  of  agreement  entered  into 
between  him  and  the  players  of  the  new  companj^  show 
that  managerial  contracts  were  in  force  over  two  cen- 
turies ago.  These  articles  make  interesting  reading, 
something  more  than  can  be  said  for  others  of  later 
origin.  They  are  dated  November  5,  1660,  and  are 
*  Biographia  Britannica. 


46  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

between  Sir  William  Davenant,  as  party  of  the  first 
part,  and  Thomas  Betterton  (spelled  Batterton),  Thomas 
Sheppej',  Robert  Nokes,  James  Noakes,  Thomas  Lo- 
vell,  John  Moseley,  Cave  Underbill,  Robert  Turner, 
and  Thomas  lyilleston,  of  the  second  part  ;  and  Henry 
Harris,  painter,  of  the  third  part.  It  is  provided  that 
during  the  occupation  of  temporary  quarters  the  re- 
ceipts accruing  from  the  performances,  after  the  pay- 
ment for  house-rent,  supers  and  other  necessary 
expenses,  shall  be  divided  into  fourteen  shares, 
whereof  Davenant  shall  have  four  and  the  company 
the  remaining  ten  ;  that  "  the  said  Thomas  Batterton, 
Thomas  Sheppey,  and  the  rest  of  the  said  company 
shall  admit  such  a  consort  of  musicians  into  the  said 
playhouse  for  their  necessary  use,  as  the  said  Sir  Wil- 
liam shall  nominate  and  provide,  duringe  their  play- 
inge  in  the  said  playhouse,  not  exceeding  the  rate  of 
30  s.  the  day  ' '  ;  and  that  when  the  company  shall 
be  quartered  in  the  new  house  to  be  erected  by  Dave- 
nant the  several  receipts  of  the  theatre  are  to  be  divided 
into  fifteen  shares,  two  shares  to  be  paid  to  the  latter 
towards  *'  the  house-rent,  buildinge,  scafibldinge  and 
makinge  of  frames  for  scenes,"  one  share  for  furnish- 
ing scenery,  costumes,  and  properties,  seven  to  Sir  Wil- 
liam * '  to  maintaine  all  the  women  that  are  to  performe 
or  represent  women's  parts  in  the  aforesaid  tragedies, 
comedies,  playes,  or  representations,"  and  the  other 
five  shares  to  be  divided  among  Betterton  and  his  com- 
panions. 


''THE  ENGLISH  ROSCIUS:'  47 

One  of  the  articles  sets  forth  that  Davenant  shall  not 
be  responsible  out  of  his  shares  ' '  for  the  supplyeinge 
of  cloathes,  habitts,  and  scenes,  to  provide  eyther  hatts, 
feathers,  gloves,  ribbons,  swordebelts,  bands,  stock- 
ings, or  shoes"  for  any  of  the  men  actors,  and  it  is 
further  stipulated  :  ' '  That  a  private  boxe  bee  provided 
and  established  for  the  use  of  Thomas  Killigrew,  Esq., 
one  of  the  groomes  of  his  Majestie's  bedchamber,  suffi- 
cient to  conteine  sixe  persons,  into  which  the  said  Mr. 
Killigrew  and  such  as  he  shall  appoint,  shall  have  lib- 
erty to  enter  without  any  salary  or  pay  for  their  entrance 
into  such  a  place  of  the  said  theatre  as  the  said  Sir 
Wm.  Davenant,  his  heirs,  etc.  shall  appoint." 

The  clause  last  quoted  shows  a  commendable  spirit 
of  friendliness  between  rival  managers,  although  the 
courtesy  of  the  box  was  probably  due  to  Killigrew's 
influence  with  the  King.  A  man  who  could  tell  the 
latter  with  impunity  that  he  was  going  * '  to  fetch  Oliver 
Cromwell  from  hell  to  take  care  of  the  aifairs  of  the  na- 
tion, for  that  his  successor  took  no  care  of  them  at  all " 
must  have  been  of  sufficient  importance,  independent 
of  his  theatrical  pretensions,  to  receive  the  freedom  of 
Sir  William's  house. 

The  theatre  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  designed  for  the 
Duke's  Company,  a  playhouse  altered  and  rearranged 
for  the  purpose,  was  opened  in  1661  with  an  operatic 
piece  styled  The  Siege  of  Rhodes.  In  this  production 
Betterton  played  Solomon,  the  Magnificent,  and  Mistress 
Saunderson,  whom  he  was  afterward  to  marry,  enacted 


48  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

lanthe.  It  enjoyed  a  run  of  twelve  nights,  and  was  fol- 
lowed by  other  successes,  among  them  that  historic  re- 
vival of  Hamlet  with  Betterton  as  the  melancholy  hero. 
'  *  To  the  Opera, ' '  *  writes  Pepys, '  *  and  there  saw  Ham- 
let^ Prince  of  Denmark  done  fvith  scenes,  very  well ; 
but  above  all,  Betterton  did  the  Prince's  part  beyond 
imagination."  It  was  a  performance  well  deserving 
a  note  in  that  voluminous  diary,  and  one  cannot  but 
envy  the  good  fortune  of  those  who  witnessed  it.  The 
attractive  Mistress  Saunderson,  one  of  the  first  reg- 
ular actresses  on  the  English  stage,  and  who  was  later 
to  have  the  honor  of  instructing  the  Princesses  Mary 
and  Anne  in  the  mysteries  of  elocution,  was  the  fair 
Ophelia,  Mrs.  Davenport  essayed  the  Queen,  Harris  was 
Horatio,  and  I^illeston  the  King.  But  the  greatest  of 
these  was  the  Hamlet  of  Betterton,  to  which,  however, 
one  critic  objected  on  the  ground  that  it  lacked  origi- 
nality. Whatever  may  have  been  the  merits  of  this 
creation  as  compared  with  other  Hamlets  it  can  be  taken 
for  a  certainty  that  Betterton  played  the  role  with  won- 
derful effectiveness  and  that  it  proved  one  of  his  finest 
achievements.  Colley  Gibber,  says  in  his  Apology 
apropos  to  Betterton' s  appearance  in  the  part  in  later 
years : 

"  You  may  have  seen  a  Hamlet  perhaps  who  on  the 
first  appearance  of  his  father's  spirit  has  thrown  him- 
self  into    all  the   straining   vociferation   requisite   to 
express  rage  and  fury  ;  and  the  house  has  thundered 
*  The  Duke's  Theatre  was  also  known  as  the  Opera. 


CATHERINE   CLIVE. 

REPRODUCED  FROM  A  FRAGMENT  OF  AN  ENGRAVING  BY  J.  FABER. 


''THE  ENGLISH  ROSClUSr  49 

applause,  though  the  misguided  actor  all  the  while  was 
tearing  a  passion  into  rags.  The  late  Mr.  Addison, 
whilst  I  sate  by  him  to  see  this  scene  acted,  made  the 
same  observation,  asking  me  with  some  surprise  if  I 
thought  Hamlet  should  be  in  so  violent  a  passion  with 
the  ghost,  which  though  it  might  have  astonished, 
had  not  provoked  him.  For  you  may  observe  that  in 
this  beautiful  speech  the  passion  never  rises  beyond  an 
almost  breathless  astonishment,  or  an  impatience  lim- 
ited only  by  filial  reverence  to  inquire  into  the  sus- 
pected wrongs  that  may  have  raised  him  from  his 
peaceful  tomb,  and  a  desire  to  know  what  a  spirit  so 
seemingly  distressed  might  wish  or  enjoin  a  sorrowful 
son  to  execute  towards  his  future  quiet  in  the  grave. 
This  was  the  light  into  which  Betterton  threw  this 
scene,  which  he  opened  with  a  pause  of  mute  amaze- 
ment, then  rising  slowly  to  a  solemn,  trembling  voice 
he  made  the  ghost  equally  terrible  to  the  spectators  as 
to  himself  and  in  the  descriptive  part  of  the  natural 
emotions  which  the  ghostlj^  vision  gave  him,  the  bold- 
ness of  his  expostulation  was  still  governed  by  de- 
cency, manly,  but  not  braving — his  voice  never  rising 
into  that  seeming  outrage  or  wild  defiance  of  what  he 
naturally  revered." 

Indeed,  it  is  related  that  although  Betterton' s  com- 
plexion was  naturally  rudd}^  when,  as  Hamlet,  he 
was  confronted  by  the  Ghost  he  * '  instantly  turned  as 
white  as  his  neckcloth,  while  his  whole  body  seemed 
to  be  affected  with  a  strong  tremor  "  ;  had  his  father's 


50        ECHOES  OF  THE  PLA  YHOUSE. 

apparition  actually  risen  before  him  he  could  not  have 
displayed  greater  agony.  Tlje  spectators  shared  the 
horror  themselves,  and  so  did  Barton  Booth  on  the 
memorable  occasion  of  his  first  playing  the  Ghost  to 
Betterton's  Hamlet  and  being  so  awe-stricken  that  he 
could  not  speak  his  lines. 

The  man  who  was  for  half  a  century  the  most  beloved 
figure  on  the  English  stage  may  not  have  possessed 
the  extraordinary  versatility  of  Garrick,  yet  he  dis- 
played remarkable  variety  in  his  art.  One  instance  of 
this,  in  the  early  part  of  his  career,  is  shown  by  his 
appearance  in  September,  1661,  shortly  after  the  revival 
oi Hamlet  (which  was  remunerative  enough,  by  the  way, 
to  show  that  Shakespeare  was  the  name  to  conjure  by 
even  during  the  careless,  thoughtless  reign  of  the 
second  Charles)  as  Sir  Toby  in  Twelfth  Night.  Poor 
Pepys  could  not  enjoy  the  play  because  he  went  to  see 
it  '*  against  my  own  mind  and  resolution,"  but  his  con- 
temporaries who  had  no  conscientious  scruples  of  that 
kind  found  in  the  adventures  of  Sir  Toby  and  the  rest 
of  that  delightful  company  a  generous  entertainment. 
In  a  succeeding  production  of  Davenant's  Love  and 
Honor  Betterton  played  a  certain  Prince  Alvaro,  and 
had  the  honor  of  wearing  the  King's  coronation  clothes, 
while  Mr.  Harris,  as  another  prince,  donned  a  suit  pre- 
sented by  the  Duke  of  York,  and  Mr.  Price,  who  did 
Lionel^  was  the  recipient  of  a  costume  from  I^ord 
Oxford. 

And  so  the  * '  best  actor  in  the  world  ' '  goes  on  build- 


''THE  ENGLISH  ROSCWSr  5  I 

ing  up  his  reputation  and  adding  to  his  already  exten- 
sive repertoire.  In  the  spring  of  1662  we  have  him 
doing  Mercutio  in  Romeo  a7id  Juliet,  or  more  probably 
a  garbled  version  of  the  tragedy,  for  it  was  the  fashion 
in  those  days  to  lay  violent  hands  on  Shakespeare, 
altering,  adapting,  and  ruining  his  masterpieces  under 
the  impression  that  they  were  made  the  more  present- 
able and  elegant  thereby.  Davenant  went  so  far  as  to 
tamper  with  Measure  for  Measure,  and  actually  inter- 
jected into  it  the  characters  oi Beatrice  and  Benedick — an 
innovation  that  appears  to  have  had  the  seal  of  approval 
put  upon  it  by  an  unthinking  public.  Whether  Romeo 
and  Juliet  was  so  roughly  treated  or  not,  it  is  at  least 
very  plain  that  Pepys,  who  had  by  this  time  recovered 
from  his  attack  of  righteousness,  thought  nothing  of  it. 
"  My  wife  and  I  by  coach  first  to  see  my  little  picture 
that  is  a  drawing,  and  thence  to  the  Opera,  and  there 
saw  Romeo  and  Juliet  the  first  time  it  was  ever  acted, 
but  it  is  a  play  of  itself  the  worst  that  ever  I  heard,  and 
the  worst  acted  that  ever  I  saw  these  people  do,  and  I 
am  resolved  to  go  no  more  to  see  the  first  time  of  acting, 
for  they  were  all  of  them  out  more  or  less."  The  com- 
plainant might  not  have  so  keenly  taken  to  heart  the 
poorness  of  the  acting  could  he  have  known  how  often 
Romeo  a?td  Juliet  was  to  be  slaughtered  in  future  gener- 
ations by  companies  far  inferior  to  the  Duke's. 

Nor  was  Pepys  much  impressed  with  a  subsequent 
Shakespearian  performance  wherein  Betterton  figured, 
namely  Henry  the  Eighth.     He  refers  to  it  as  *'  the  so 


52  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

much  cried-up  play,"  and  writes  it  down  as  "  so  simple  a 
thing,  made  up  of  a  great  many  patches,  that  besides  the 
shows  and  processions  in  it,  there  is  nothing  in  the  world 
good  or  well  done. ' '  Nevertheless,  the  play  was  acted 
for  fifteen  consecutive  days,  and  was  evidently  distin- 
guished by  an  unusual  exhibition  of  theatrical  pomp. 
What  is  much  more  interesting  is  the  fact  that  Better- 
ton,  who  acted  the  King,  had  his  inspiration,  as  it 
were,  indirectly  from  Shakespeare  himself.  Sir  Wil- 
liam Davenant,  who  had  coached  his  leading  player  in 
the  part,  had  himself  been  instructed  in  it  by  old  Mr. 
lyowen,  who  in  his  turn  had  been  taught  how  to  inter- 
pret it  by  no  less  a  person  than  the  immortal  Bard  of 
Avon.  A  few  months  later  Macbeth  was  put  on,  and 
as  the  critical  Samuel  condescended  to  call  it  "  a  pretty 
good  play,  but  admirably  acted ' '  we  can  comfort  our- 
selves with  the  reflection  that  the  beauties  of  the  great 
poet  were  not  altogether  lost  upon  him. 

As  a  transition  from  the  gloom  of  Macbeth  may  be 
mentioned  the  performance  of  The  Rivals,  a  probable 
adaptation  of  the  Two  Noble  Kinsmen  attributed  to  the 
authorship  of  Shakespeare  and  Fletcher.  It  introduced 
music  and  dancing  of  an  agreeable  character  and  had 
in  it  that  famous  song,  **  My  I^odging  is  on  the  Cold 
Ground,"  which  Moll  Davis  gave  with  sufficient  charm 
to  delight  the  King  and  excite  the  jealousy  of  the  usu- 
ally amiable  Mistress  Gwynne.  Betterton,  as  Philan- 
der,  made  a  fine  impression  and  so  did  his  rival  by 
courtesy,   Mr.    Harris.     The  latter  won   considerable 


''THE  ENGLISH  RO  SCI  US."  53 

fame  in  these  years,  and  had  a  more  than  ordinary 
amount  of  talent,  but  success  turned  his  head  and  after 
demanding  from  Davenant  a  larger  salary  than  that 
paid  to  Betterton,  he  left  the  theatre  in  lyincoln's  Inn 
Fields,  declaring  that  he  would  never  act  there  more. 
He  modified  his  vow,  however,  as  the  King  did  not 
encourage  his  attempt  to  join  the  other  company,  under 
Killigrew,  and  so  he  came  back  penitently  to  the  fold, 
doubtless  believing  in  his  heart  that  he  was  far  above 
the  modest  Betterton.  To  be  sure,  he  was  a  *'more 
ayery  ' '  man  than  his  rival,  and  the  oft-quoted  but  ever 
quaint  and  amusing  Pepys  held  him  in  high  esteem. 
*'  Company  at  home,"  is  the  entry  for  January  24, 
1666-7.  "  Amongst  others.  Captain  Rolt.  And  anon, 
at  about  seven  or  eight  o'clock  comes  Mr.  Harris  of 
the  Duke's  playhouse,  and  brings  Mrs.  Pierce  with 
him,  and  also  one  dressed  like  a  country  maid  with  a 
straw  hat  on,  and  at  first  I  could  not  tell  who  it  was, 
though  I  expected  Knipp  ;  but  it  was  she  coming  off 
the  stage  just  as  she  acted  this  day  in  The  Goblins  ;  a 
merry  jade.  Now  my  house  is  full  and  four  fiddlers 
that  play  well.  Harris  I  first  took  to  my  closet :  and 
I  find  him  a  very  curious  and  understanding  person 
in  all  pictures  and  other  things  [to  find  an  actor  under- 
standing in  other  things  must  have  been  a  revelation 
for  the  writer]  and  a  man  of  fine  conversation  ;  and 
so  is  Rolt.  Among  other  things,  Harris  sung  his 
Irish  song,  the  strangest  in  itself  and  the  prettiest 
sung  by  him  that  ever  I  heard." 


54  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

The  great  London  plague  of  1665  and  the  fire  of  1666 
put  an  end,  for  the  time  being,  to  all  theatrical  enter- 
tainments in  the  metropolis.  When  the  horrors  at- 
tendant upon  these  two  calamities  had  passed  away 
the  theatres  were  re-opened.  Betterton  resumed  his 
position  at  the  Duke's  house,  acting  in  a  round  of 
characters  well  calculated  to  test  his  versatility  and 
producing  several  of  his  own  plays,  incidentally  show- 
ing thereby  that  he  was  more  gifted  as  a  creator  of 
parts  than  of  dramas.  In  the  meanwhile  Davenant  had 
planned  the  erection  of  a  new  theatre  in  Dorset  Gar- 
dens, Salisbury  Court,  and  to  this  elaborate  structure, 
designed  by  Sir  Christopher  Wren,  and  costing,  with 
the  scenery,  some  five  thousand  pounds,  the  Duke's 
Players  moved  in  1671.  Sir  William  was  then  dead, 
and  the  royal  patent  was  inherited  by  his  wife  and 
sons.  One  of  the  sons,  Charles  Davenant,  took  the 
ostensible  direction  of  affairs,  and  Betterton  had  much 
to  say  in  the  management  of  the  performances.  To 
detail  the  various  characters  taken  by  the  latter 
during  the  remaining  years  that  the  company  existed 
is  a  matter  for  the  historian  of  the  stage,  and  can  have 
no  excuse  in  the  present  unpretentious  memoirs.  Let 
it  sufiice  to  say  that  by  this  time  Betterton  was  at  the 
height  of  a  fame  which  was  hardly  to  decrease  with  the 
approach  of  old  age,  and  had  received  the  popular  rec- 
ognition which  he  so  richly  deserved.  "  There  are  so 
many  vouchers  for  the  merit  of  this  extraordinary  ac- 
tor, ' '  wrote  Dibdin  years  after,  ' '  that  there  would  be  no 


''THE  ENGLISH  ROSCIUS:'  55 

great  difficulty  in  ascertaining,  or  risk  in  asserting  pre- 
cisely what  they  were.  I  must  content  myself,  how- 
ever, with  saying  that  it  has  been  unanimously  allowed, 
his  personal  and  mental  qualifications  for  the  stage 
were  correct  to  perfection,  and  that,  after  a  variety  of 
arguments  to  prove  this,  we  are  obliged  to  confess  that 
he  appears  never  to  have  been  on  the  stage  for  a  single 
moment  the  actor  but  the  character  he  performed." 

In  1682  was  effected  the  union  of  the  King's  and  the 
Duke's  Company,  the  consolidated  organization  open- 
ing its  season  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  Drury  Lane, 
which  had  been  erected  several  years  before  under  the 
supervision  of  Sir  Christopher  Wren.  The  list  of 
players  includes  Betterton,  and  Mrs.  Saunderson  (now 
Mrs.  Betterton),  Kynaston,  Mrs.  Barry,  Mountford, 
Smith,  Underbill,  and  Sanford.  Into  this  family  was 
soon  to  come  Colley  Cibber,  joining  it  as  an  humble 
but  aspiring  youth  of  nineteen,  who  for  a  while  would 
simply  be  known  as  Master  Colley.  Thomas  Davies, 
the  actor  and  bookseller  who  ' '  mouthed  a  sentence  as 
curs  mouth  a  bone,"  *  was  told  by  Cross,  the  prompter 
of  the  house,  that  after  waiting  a  long  time  for  some 
notice  to  be  taken  of  him,  Cibber  obtained  the  honor 
of  carrying  a  message  in  some  play  to  Betterton. 
* '  Whatever  was  the  cause.  Master  Colley  was  so  terri- 
fied that  the  scene  was  disconcerted  by  him.  Betterton 
asked  in   some  anger  who  the  young  fellow  was  that 

*  Davies  was  fairly  driven  from  the  stage  by  this  satirical  line 
of  Churchill's. 


56  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

had  committed  the  blunder.  Downes  repHed  :  *  Mas- 
ter CoUey.'  '  Master  CoUey  !  then  forfeit  him.* 
*  Why,  sir,'  said  Downes,  *  he  has  no  salary.'  *  No,' 
said  Betterton,  *  why,  then,  put  him  down  ten  shil- 
lings a  week,  and  forfeit  him  five  shillings.'  To  this 
good-natured  adjustment  of  reward  and  punishment, 
Cibber  owed  the  first  money  he  ever  received  from  the 
theatre." 

An  incident  like  this  was  not  likely  to  decrease  the 
admiration  of  the  young  unsalaried  performer  for  the 
great  Betterton,  and  Cibber,  when  he  came  to  write 
that  delightful  Apology^  helped  not  a  little  to  per- 
petuate the  fame  of  a  man  who  seems  to  have  been  as 
admirable  in  his  personal  relations  as  he  was  when 
treading  the  boards. 

"Betterton  was  an  actor,"  eloquently  says  Cibber, 
speaking  con  amore,  "as  Shakespeare  was  an  author, 
both  without  competitors  !  formed  for  the  mutual  as- 
sistance and  illustration  of  each  other's  genius  !  How 
Shakespeare  wrote,  all  men  who  have  a  taste  for  nature 
may  read,  and  know — but,  with  what  higher  rapture 
would  he  still  be  read,  could  they  conceive  how  Better- 
ton  played  him.  Then  might  they  know,  the  one  was 
born  alone  to  speak  what  the  other  only  knew  to  write. 
Pity  it  is  that  the  momentary  beauties  flowing  from  an 
harmonious  elocution,  cannot  like  those  of  poetry,  be 
their  own  record  !  That  the  animated  graces  of  the 
player  can  live  no  longer  than  the  instant  breath  and 
motion  that  presents  them  ;  or  at  best  can  but  fairly 


''THE  ENGLISH  ROSCIUSr  57 

glimmer  through  the  memory  or  imperfect  attestation 
of  a  few  surviving  spectators.  Could  how  Betterton 
spoke  be  as  easily  known  as  what  he  spoke  ;  then 
might  you  see  •  the  Muse  of  Shakespeare  in  her  tri- 
umph, with  all  her  beauties  in  their  best  array,  rising 
into  real  life,  and  charming  her  beholders.  But  alas  ! 
since  all  this  is  so  far  out  of  the  reach  of  description, 
how  shall  I  show  you  Betterton  ?  Should  I  therefore 
tell  you  that  all  the  Othellos^  Hamlets^  Hotspurs,  Mac- 
beths,  and  Brutus' s,  whom  you  may  have  seen  since 
his  time,  have  fallen  far  short  of  him  ;  this  still  would 
give  you  no  idea  of  his  particular  excellence."  Then 
CoUey  tries  to  give  some  idea  of  the  hero  whom  he 
finds  it  so  difficult  to  describe,  and  it  is  only  to  be  re- 
gretted that  space  does  not  permit  of  further  quotations 
from  his  enthusiastic  estimate. 

Anthony  Aston,  half-lawyer,  half-actor,  who  trav- 
elled through  the  English  provinces  during  the  early 
Georgian  era,  giving  a  theatrical  performance  which 
he  st)ded  a  medley,  has  left  us  the  following  graphic 
picture  of  the  great  actor. 

'  *  Mr.  Betterton  (although  a  superlative  good  actor) 
labored  under  ill  figure,  being  clumsily  made,  having 
a  great  head,  a  short  thick  neck,  stooped  into  the 
shoulders,  and  had  fat  short  arms,  which  he  rarely 
lifted  higher  than  his  stomach.  His  left  hand  fre- 
quently lodged  in  his  breast,  between  his  coat  and 
waistcoat,  while,  with  his  right,  he  prepared  his  speech. 
His  actions  were  few,  but  just. — He  had  little  eyes, 


58  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

and  a  broad  face,  a  little  pock-fretten  ;  a  corpulent 
body,  and  thick  legs,  with  large  feet.  He  was  better 
to  meet  than  to  follow  ;  for  his  aspect  was  serious,  ven- 
erable and  majestic  ;  in  his  latter  time  a  little  paralytic. 
His  voice  was  low  and  grumbling  ;  yet  he  could  tune 
it  by  an  artful  climax^  which  enforced  universal  atten- 
tion, even  from  fops  and  orange  girls.  He  was  inca- 
pable of  dancing,  even  in  a  country  dance  ;  as  was  Mrs. 
Barry  ;  but  their  good  qualities  were  more  than  equal 
to  their  deficiencies ;  while  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  sung 
very  agreeably  in  the  Loves  of  Mars  and  Venus,  and 
danced  in  a  country  dance,  as  well  as  Mr.  Wicks, 
though  not  with  so  much  art  and  foppery,  but  like  a 
well-bred  gentlewoman.  Mr.  Betterton  was  the  most 
extensive  actor,  from  Alexander  or  Sir  John  Falstaff  \ 
but  in  that  last  character,  he  wanted  the  waggery  of 
Estcourt,  the  drollery  of  Harper,  and  salaciousness  of 
Jack  Evans.  But  then,  Estcourt  was  too  trifling  ; 
Harper  had  too  much  of  the  Bartholomew-fair  ;  and 
Evans  misplaced  his  humor. — Thus,  you  see  what  flaws 
are  in  bright  diamonds  :  and  I  have  often  wished  that 
Mr.  Betterton  would  have  resigned  the  part  of  Hamlet 
to  some  young  actor  (who  might  have  personated, 
though  not  have  acted  it  better)  for,  when  he  threw 
himself  at  Ophelia's  feet,  he  appeared  a  little  too  grave 
for  a  young  student,  lately  come  from  the  University 
of  Wittenburg  ;  and  his  repartees  seemed  rather  as 
Apophthegm?,  from  a  sage  philosopher,  then  the  sport- 
ing flashes  of  a  young  Hamlet ;  and  no  one  else  could 


''THE  ENGLISH  ROSCIUS."  59 

have  pleased  the  town,  he  was  so  rooted  in  their  opin- 
ion. His  younger  contemporary  Powel  attempted  sev- 
eral of  Betterton's  parts  as  Alexander,  Jaffier,  etc.,  but 
lost  his  credit ;  as  in  Alexander,  he  maintained  not  the 
dignity  of  a  King,  but  out-Heroded  Herod  ;  and  in 
his  poisoned  mad  scene,  out-raved  all  probability ; 
while  Betterton  kept  his  passion  under,  and  shewed  it 
most  (as  fume  smoakes  most  when  stifled).  Betterton 
from  the  time  he  was  dressed,  to  the  end  of  the  play, 
kept  his  mind  in  the  same  temperament  and  adaptness 
as  the  present  character  required. — If  I  was  to  write  of 
him  all  day  I  should  still  remember  fresh  matter  in  his 
behalf." 

Here  was  what  might  be  termed  an  unemotional 
critique,  but  it  was  probably  a  pretty  just  one  except- 
ing that  Aston  failed  to  grasp  the  achievements  of  the 
actor  from  every  point  of  view,  and  has  thus  left  us 
only  half  a  picture,  and  not  a  flattered  one  at  that. 

Old  Thomas  might  be  drawing  near  the  grave,  but 
a  grateful  town,  which  has  not  always  been  so  constant 
to  its  favorites,  could  never  have  too  much  of  him.  * 
Its  appreciation  was  never  more  generously  shown  than 
at  the  historic  benefit  given  in  honor  of  the  now  ven- 
erable player,  in  April,  1709.  Love  for  Love  was  the 
play,  with  the  old  man  as  Valentine  ;  the  audience  was 
large  and  particularly  brilliant,  and  to  crown  the  tri- 

*  Bettertou  only  stayed  at  Drury  Lane  until  1695  ;  then  he 
and  a  number  of  his  companions  formed  a  company  of  their 
own  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  and  some  years  later  they  went 
over  to  the  new  Queen's  Theatre,  in  the  Haymarket. 


60  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLA  Y HO  USE. 

umph  of  the  evening  Mrs.  Barry  delivered  this  epilogue 
while  she  and  lovely  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  clasped  him 
about  the  waist : 

**  So  we  to  former  leagues  of  Friendship  true, 
Have  bid  once  more  our  peaceful  homes  adieu, 
To  aid  old  Thomas,  and  to  pleasure  you. 
Like  errant  damsels  boldly  we  engage, 
Arm'd,  as  you  see  for  the  defenceless  stage. 
Time  was  when  this  good  man  no  help  did  lack, 
And  scorned  that  any  She  should  hold  his  Back. 
But  now,  so  age  and  frailty  have  ordained, 
By  two  at  once  he  's  forced  to  be  sustained. 
You  see  what  failing  nature  brings  man  to. 
And  yet  let  none  insult,  for  aught  we  know. 
She  may  not  bear  so  well  with  some  of  you  : 
Though  old,  you  find  his  strength  is  not  clean  past, 
But  true  as  steel,  he 's  Mettle  to  the  last. 
If  better  he  perform'd  in  days  of  yore. 
Yet  now  he  gives  you  all  that  's  in  his  power, 
What  can  the  youngest  of  you  all  do  more?" 

After  this  royal  ovation  ' '  old  Thomas ' '  will  go  on 
playing  for  another  year,  exerting  much  of  the  custom- 
ary charm  in  comedy,  and  surprising  every  one  by  flashes 
of  ancient  fire  in  such  characters  as  Othello,  Macbeth,  and 
Lear.  During  the  autumn  of  1709  he  will  be  found  at 
the  Haymarket  Theatre,  a  house  established  a  short 
time  before  ostensibly  for  the  presentation  of  opera,  and 
it  is  here  that  his  memorable  farewell  to  the  stage  he 
loved  so  well  is  to  be  made  on  April  13,  17 10.  "  It  is 
his  benefit  night,  and  the  tears  are  in  his  aged  wife's 
eyes  and  a  painful  sort  of  smile  on  her  trembling  lips, 
for  Betterton  kisses  her  as  he  goes  forth  that  afternoon 


'^^'THE  ENGLISH  ROSCWsr  6 1 

to  take  leave,  as  it  proved,  of  the  stage  forever.  He  is 
in  such  pain  from  gout  that  he  can  scarcely  walk  to  his 
carriage,  and  how  is  he  to  enact  the  noble  and  fiery 
Melantius,  in  that  ill-named  drama  of  horror,  The 
Maid's  Tragedy  ">  Hoping  for  the  best,  the  old  player 
is  conveyed  to  the  theatre,  built  by  Sir  John  Vanbrugh, 
in  the  Haymarket,  the  site  of  which  is  now  occupied 
by  the  Opera  House.  Through  the  stage- door  he  is 
carried  in  loving  arms  to  his  dressing-room.  At  the 
end  of  an  hour  Wilks  is  there,  and  Pinkethman,  and 
Mrs.  Barry,  all  dressed  for  their  parts,  and  agreeably 
disappointed  to  find  the  Melantius  of  the  night  robed, 
armored,  and  bes worded,  with  one  foot  in  a  buskin, 
and  the  other  in  a  slipper.  To  enable  him  even  to  wear 
the  latter,  he  had  first  thrust  his  inflamed  foot  into 
water  ;  but  stout  as  he  seemed,  trying  his  strength  to 
and  fro  in  the  room,  the  hand  of  death  was  at  that  mo- 
ment descending  on  the  grandest  of  English  actors. 

"  The  house  arose  to  receive  him  who  had  delighted 
themselves,  their  sires,  and  their  grandsires.  The  au- 
dience were  packed  like  Norfolk  bifiins.  The  edifice 
itself  was  only  five  years  old,  and  when  it  was  abuild- 
ing  people  laughed  at  the  folly  which  reared  a  new 
theatre  in  the  country,  instead  of  in  I^ondon  ; — for  in 
1705  all  beyond  the  rural  ha5^market  was  open  field, 
straight  away  westward  and  northward.  That  such  a 
house  could  ever  be  filled  was  set  down  as  an  impossi- 
bility ;  the  achievement  was  accomplished  on  this 
eventful  benefit  night  ;  when  the  popular  favorite  was 


62  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

about  to  utter  his  last  words,  and  to  belong  thencefor- 
ward only  to  the  history  of  the  stage  he  had  adorned. 

"  There  was  a  shout  which  shook  him,  as  Lysippus 
uttered  the  words  '  Noble  Melantius,'  which  heralded 
his  coming.  Every  word  which  could  be  applied  to 
himself  was  marked  by  a  storm  of  applause,  and  when 
Melantius  said  of  Amintor  : 

•  His  youth  did  promise  much,  and  his  ripe  years 
Will  see  it  all  performed  ' 

a  murmuring  comment  ran  around  the  house,  that  this 
had  been  eflfected  by  Betterton  himself.  Again,  when 
he  bids  Amintor  *  hear  thy  friend,  who  has  more  years 
than  thou  '  there  were  probably  few  who  did  not  wish 
that  Betterton  were  as  young  as  Wilks  ;  but  when  he 
subsequently  thundered  forth  the  famous  passage  *  My 
heart  will  never  fail  me '  there  was  a  very  tempest  of 
excitement,  which  was  carried  to  its  utmost  height,  in 
thundering  peal  on  peal  of  unbridled  approbation,  as 
the  great  Rhodian  gazed  full  on  the  house,  exclaiming  : 

*  My  heart 
And  limbs  are  still  the  same  :  my  will  as  great 
To  do  you  service.'  "  * 

Poor  Betterton  !  His  heart  and  will  may  have  been 
the  same,  but  his  gouty  limbs  were  not,  and  he  hastened 
the  inevitable  event  when  he  put  his  feet  in  cold  water, 
so  that  he  might  play  at  the  benefit.  Forty-eight  hours 
after  this  final  triumph  he  was  dead,  and  a  whole  coun- 
*  Dr.  Doran. 


''THE  ENGLISH  ROSCIUSr  63 

try  mourned  him  as  never  actor  had  been  mourned 
before  in  England,  and  as  perhaps  none  other,  save 
Garrick,  has  been  since.  He  had  lived  to  a  fine  old 
age,  great,  lovable,  and  useful  to  the  last ;  smiled  upon 
by  royalty  as  well  as  by  the  public  and  doubtless  con- 
tent in  the  feeling  that  though  comparatively  poor  (a 
foolish  friend  had  helped  to  scatter  his  fortune  by 
unfortunate  speculation)  a  grateful  community  would 
never  let  him  want.  He  was  given  an  imposing  burial 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  that  historic  resting-place  for 
the  remains  of  so  many  who  have  contributed  to  Brit- 
ain's greatness — among  whom  are  none  more  deserving 
of  such  honor  than  Thomas  Betterton. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

I^IGHTS  I^ONG  SINCK   EXTINGUISHED. 

WK  have  seen  that  at  the  benefit  given  Betterton 
in  1 709  the  epilogue  was  spoken  by  a  Mrs. 
Barry — "the  famous  Mrs.  Barry,"  as  she  has  been 
styled.  Famous  she  was,  indeed,  while  she  lived, 
but  the  lustre  of  her  achievements  has  diminished  with 
time,  and  now  her  name  conveys  little  or  no  idea  to 
many  who  know  the  most  minute  detail  in  the  career 
of  several  less  powerful  actresses.  Her  father,  Edward 
Barry,  a  barrister,  distinguished  himself  by  raising  a 
regiment  for  the  support  of  Charles  I.,  and  his  un- 
timely death  left  the  daughter  dependent  upon  the 
charity  of  I^ady  Davenant.  The  Davenant  family 
took  a  great  interest  in  the  girl's  ambition  to  become 
celebrated,  and  through  their  influence  she  was  brought 
out  upon  the  stage,  only  to  prove  a  comparative  fail- 
ure. In  the  meantime,  the  Earl  of  Rochester  fell  madly 
in  love  with  her  and  undertook  her  tuition,  with  the 
result  that  though  her  morals  were  not  improved  by 
the  kindness  of  this  noble  patron  her  art  gained  mate- 
rially. It  is  related  how  the  Earl  boasted  that  he 
would  make  a  great  actress  of  her  in  six  months,  and 

64 


LIGHTS  LONG  SINCE  EXTINGUISHED.  65 

the  brilliant  reputation  she  afterward  gained  certainly 
justified  his  confidence  in  her  natural  qualifications, 
as  well  as  in  the  excellence  of  his  own  iUvStruction. 
Her  first  hit,  as  we  would  express  it  now,  was  made 
in  lyord  Orrery's  drama  of  Mustapha^  wherein  she  fig- 
ured as  the  Queen  of  Hungary,  and  her  advancement 
after  that  event  was  rapid,  even  phenomenal.  She 
created  a  deep  impression  in  Otway's  Alcibiades,  espe- 
cially on  the  heart  of  the  author  himself,  who  cher- 
ished for  this  gifted  woman  a  love  that  she  hardly 
deserved.  He  conceived  the  parts  of  Monimia,  in  The 
Orpha?i  and  of  Belvidera,  in  Venice  Preserved,  that  she 
might  play  them,  and  thus  added  to  her  renown  ;  in- 
deed, the  title  given  her  of  "  the  famous  Mrs.  Barry  " 
dates  from  her  appearance  in  the  last-named  piece. 

In  characters  of  greatness,  according  to  Dibdin,  she 
was  "  graceful,  noble,  and  dignified,"  no  violence  of 
passion  was  beyond  the  reach  of  her  feelings,  and  in 
''the  most  melting  distress  and  tenderness  she  was 
exquisitely  affecting.  Thus  she  was  equally  admira- 
ble in  Cassandra,  Cleopatra,  Roxana,  Monimia,  or  Be Ivi- 
deray  The  mention  of  the  part  of  Roxana  suggests 
an  anecdote  of  Mrs.  Barry  that  is  hardly  creditable  to 
the  personal  character  of  the  best  actress  Dryden  ever 
saw.  Roxana  is  one  of  the  two  leading  feminine  roles 
of  The  Rival  Queens,  or  the  Death  of  Alexander  the 
Great.  This  tragedy  was  once  a  favorite,  but  is  now 
only  remembered  in  connection  with  the  untimely  fate 

of  its  talented  author,  I^ee,  whose  career  ended  with 

5 


^  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

insanity.  It  so  happened  that  when  Barry  was  cast 
for  Roxana  a  Mrs.  Boutelle  whom  she  detested  as  a 
dangerous  rival,  quite  unnecessarily,  as  it  seems,  was 
assigned  the  part  of  Statira.  In  one  scene  Roxana  is 
called  upon  to  engage  in  a  deadly  struggle  with  Sta- 
tira, and  to  this  episode,  exciting  enough  when  sim- 
ply acted,  Mrs.  Barry  once  gave  a  tinge  of  realism  that 
set  the  town  agog  for  several  days  and  put  poor  Mrs. 
Boutelle  in  a  tremor  of  horror.  With  a  cry  of  "  Die, 
sorceress,  die,  and  all  my  wrongs  die  with  thee" — 
lines  into  which  she  put  even  more  than  the  usual 
force — Mistress  Barry  sent  her  dagger  completely 
through  the  armor  worn  by  the  detested  Statira.  There 
was  a  shriek  from  the  slightly  scratched  Boutelle,  and 
no  little  commotion  ;  but  the  episode  was  soon  hushed 
up,  after  Roxana  duly  apologized  and  explained  that 
she  had  been  carried  away  by  the  illusion  of  the  mo- 
ment. The  uncharitable  supposition  was  privately 
expressed  that  temper  rather  than  artistic  feeling  had 
carried  away  the  impetuous  Barry,  but  she  was  pub- 
licly given  the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 

This  contretemps  does  not  appear  to  have  detracted 
from  the  popularity  of  the  celebrated  Roxatia,  nor  was 
her  private  life,  (anything  but  a  decorous  one,)  a  hin- 
drance to  her  career  on  the  stage.  The  world  was 
much  the  same  then  as  now.  Gibber  had  a  thorough 
appreciation  of  her  genius,  for  he  refers  to  her  "pres- 
ence of  elevated  dignity,"  with  her  "  Mien  and  motion 
superb,  and  gracefully  majestic;  and  *' her  voice  full, 


LIGHTS  LONG  SINCE  EXTINGUISHED.  6/ 

clear  and  strong,  so  that  no  violence  of  passion  could 
be  too  much  for  her. ' '  He  adds  that  ' '  when  distress 
or  tenderness  possessed  her,  she  subsided  into  the  most 
affecting  melody  and  softness.  In  the  art  of  exciting 
pity  she  had  a  power  beyond  all  the  actresses  I  have 
yet  seen,  or  what  your  imagination  can  conceive.  Of 
the  former  of  these  two  great  excellencies,  she  gave 
the  most  delightful  proofs  in  almost  all  the  heroic  plays 
of  Dryden  and  lyce  ;  and  of  the  latter,  in  the  softer 
passions  of  Otway's  Monimia  and  Belvidera.  In  scenes 
of  anger,  defiance,  or  resentment,  while  she  was  im- 
petuous, and  terrible,  she  poured  out  the  sentiment 
with  an  enchanting  harmony  ;  and  it  was  this  particu- 
lar excellence,  for  which  Dryden  made  her  the  above 
recited  compliment,  upon  her  acting  Cassmidra  in  his 
Cleomenes.  But  here,  I  am  apt  to  think  his  partiality 
for  that  character  may  have  tempted  his  judgment  to 
let  it  pass  for  her  masterpiece  ;  when  he  could  not  but 
know  there  were  several  other  characters  in  which  her 
action  might  have  given  her  a  fairer  pretence  to  the 
praise  he  had  bestowed  on  her,  for  Cassandra;  for  in 
no  part  of  that  is  there  the  least  ground  for  compassion, 
as  in  Monimia  ;  nor  equal  cause  for  admiration,  as  in 
the  noble  love  of  Cleopatra,  or  the  tempestuous  jealousy 
of  Roxana.  'T  was  in  these  lights  I  thought  Mrs. 
Barry  shone  with  a  much  brighter  excellence  than  in 
Cassandra.  She  was  the  first  person  whose  merit  was 
distinguished  by  the  indulgence  of  having  an  annual 
Benefit-Play,  which  was  granted  to  her  alone,  if  I  mis- 


68  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

take  not,  first  in  King  James's  time,  and  which  became 
not  common  to  others,  'till  the  division  of  this  com- 
pany,* after  the  death  of  King  William's  Queen,  Queen 
Mary.  This  great  actress  dy'd  of  a  fever  toward  the 
latter  end  of  Queen  Anne  ;  the  year  I  have  forgot ; 
but  perhaps  you  will  recollect  it,  by  an  Expression  that 
fell  from  her  in  blank  Verse,  in  her  last  hours,  when 
she  was  delirious,  viz.  :  '  Ha,  ha  !  and  so  they  make  us 
Lords,  by  dozens  ! '  " 

Gibber  places  the  date  of  her  death  upon  her  sup- 
posed utterance  of  a  verse  referring  to  an  increase  of 
the  peerage  for  political  reasons,  during  the  reign  of 
Queen  Anne  ;  he  had  forgotten  that  Mrs.  Barry  died 
in  17 13,  after  having  lived  in  retirement  since  her  fare- 
well appearance  on  the  stage  in  1710,  That  she  has 
not  come  down  to  posterity  with  the  same  eclat  as  two 
or  three  other  actresses  long  since  departed  is  really 
curious,  for  there  has  never  been  any  difference  of 
opinion  regarding  her  wonderful  abilities  as  a  trage- 
dienne. The  only  disagreement  seems  to  have  been  as 
to  her  personal  appearance,  and  the  probabilities  are 
that  while  she  was  not  handsome  she  had  great  fasci- 
nation, not  only  for  Rochester  and  poor  Otway,  but  for 
every  one  else.  * '  With  all  her  enchantment, ' '  Anthony 
Aston  records,  * '  this  fine  creature  was  not  handsome ; 
her  mouth  opening  most  on  the  right  side,  which  she 
strove  to  draw  the  other  way  ;  and  at  times  composing 
her  face  as  if  to  have  her  picture  drawn.  She  was 
*  Drury  lyane. 


LIGHTS  LONG  SINCE  EXTINGUISHED.  69 

middle-sized,  had  darkish  hair,  light  eyes,  and  was 
indifferent  plump.  In  tragedy  she  was  solemn  and 
august ;  in  comedy  alert,  easy  and  genteel  ;  pleavSant 
in  her  face  and  manner,  and  filling  the  stage  with  a 
variety  of  action."  Yet  Aston  sadly  adds  that  ''she 
could  not  sing,  nor  dance  ;  no,  not  even  in  a  country 
dance. ' ' 

Of  far  different  character  was  that  * '  darling  of  the 
theatre,"  Mistress  Anne  Bracegirdle,  a  contemporary 
of  Barry,  and  an  actress  at  whose  pretty  feet  all  the  gal- 
lants in  town  were  ready  to  drop.  But  they  would 
have  dropped  in  vain,  for  she  would  have  none  of  them, 
even  though  her  admirers  numbered  the  Dukes  of 
Devonshire  and  Dorset,  the  Earl  of  Halifax,  Congreve, 
and  lyord  Lovelace.  Her  virtue  was  extolled  as  much 
as  her  talents,  and  so  deep  an  impression  did  she  make 
by  the  possession  of  the  former  quality — not  a  very 
common  one  for  the  actresses  who  surrounded  her — 
that  Lord  Halifax  and  his  friends  made  up  a  purse  of 
800  guineas,  which  they  presented  to  her  as  a  slight 
testimonial  of  their  regard — and  surprise.  Macauley 
has  taken  a  rather  cynical  view  of  this  '*  Diana  of  the 
stage!"  (as  Doctor  Doran  calls  her),  relating  that 
"those  who  are  acquainted  with  the  parts  which  she 
was  in  the  habit  of  saying,  and  with  the  epilogue  which 
it  was  her  special  business  to  recite,  will  not  give  her 
credit  for  any  extraordinary  measure  of  virtue  or  deli- 
cacy. She  seemed  to  have  been  a  cold,  vain,  interested 
coquette  who  perfectly  understood  how  much  the  influ- 


70  ECHOES  OF    THE  PL  A  Y HO  USE. 

ence  of  her  charms  was  increased  by  the  fame  of  a 
severity  which  cost  her  nothing,  and  who  could  ven- 
ture to  flirt  with  a  succession  of  admirers  in  the  just 
confidence  that  no  flame  which  vShe  might  kindle  in 
them  would  thaw  her  own  ice." 

Macauley's  theory  may  be  taken  with  the  traditional 
grain  of  salt,  for  his  prejudices  were  so  pronounced 
that  he  was  forced  to  give  them  to  the  world,  even  at 
the  expense  of  a  woman's  character.  That  the  free- 
and-easy  people  about  her  believed  in  her  professions  is 
a  very  good  indication  of  the  sincerity  of  the  heroine 
of  Congreve's  famous  lines : 

"  Would  she  could  make  of  me  a  saint, 
Or  I  of  her  a  sinner. '  * 

But  in  the  role  of  heroine  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  never  ap- 
peared under  more  exciting  auspices  than  on  the  mem- 
orable night  when  an  attempt  was  made  to  carry  off" 
the  unwiUing  charmer.  Among  her  string  of  hopeless, 
sighing  admirers,  was  a  certain  Captain  Hill,  who 
determined  to  obtain  possession  by  force  of  the  lovely 
object  of  his  passion,  and  for  this  purpose  enlisted  the 
services  of  the  notorious  lyord  Mohun,  a  rufiianly  aris- 
tocrat quite  ready  for  such  a  scheme.  About  ten 
o'clock  one  night,  when  the  unconscious  Bracegirdle 
and  her  mother  were  supping  at  the  home  of  a  Mr. 
Page  in  Drury  Lane,  the  two  conspirators,  assisted  by 
several  soldiers  whom  they  had  bribed,  attempted  to 
smuggle  the  actress  into  a  carriage,  as  she  was  leaving 
the    house.     The  lady  naturally  protested,    and  her 


»      J       •  •' 


f 

..  __  ^                .    _^ 

=-^/ 

1 

;:;•:::.::::::■::::,:,.-/ 

crrrr-y 

: 

^    "^^ 

;  ^^^^^^^^^^^^g 

F 

'^1 

1^^^^ 

J^^^^^^= 

*  ^^^^^i^^SH^^I 

^Hk  \    '  i^B 

EE-JE^^^^M 

fF- 

'-  -        _:r=::^[|M^^« 

, 

'" 

ANNE  BRACEGIRDLE. 

FROM  AN  OLD  PRINT. 


LIGHTS  LONG  SINCE  EXTINGUISHED,  yi 

screams  soon  brought  assistance  ;  an  angry  mob 
gathered,  and  Lord  Mohun  and  the  Captain  were  only 
too  glad  to  take,  themselves  off.  The  affair  had  a  fatal 
ending  for  poor  Will  Mountford,  a  graceful,  handsome 
actor  who  used  to  play  anything  from  a  seventeenth 
century  fop  to  Alexander  in  the  Rival  Queens.  This 
playing  of  Alexander  really  cost  him  his  life,  as  events 
turned  out,  for  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  was  the  Statira,  and 
Hill  accordingly  became  absurdly  jealous  of  the  young 
actor.  When  the  attempted  abduction  had  such  an 
unexpected  ending  the  Captain  met  Mountford  on  the 
street;  an  altercation  ensued  and  Hill  ran  his  rival 
through  the  body  with  his  sword,  inflicting  a  fatal 
wound.  The  murderer  fled  from  England,  the  delect- 
able Mohun  was  tried  for  his  life,  but  acquitted  on  the 
ground  that  there  was  not  sufficient  evidence  to  con- 
nect him  with  the  crime,  and  Mountford' s  disconsolate 
widow  subsequently  married  another  actor,  Verbrug- 
gen.  This  gallant  second  husband  was  the  gentleman 
who  loved  to  say  :  "  Damn  me,  though  I  don'^iuch 
value  my  wife,  yet  nobody  shall  abuse  her. ' ' 

Mrs.  Bracegirdle  left  the  stage  during  the  reign  of 
Queen  Anne,  when  the  younger  charms  of  Nance  Old- 
field  were  beginning  to  make  her  own  position  insecure, 
and  she  lived  to  a  good  old  age,  dying  as  late  as  1748.* 
She  must  have  read  Cibber's  Apology,  and  have  taken 
keen  interest  in  the  description  of  herself  as  it  is  here 
repeated. 

*  She  was  born  in  1663. 


72  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

"  I  come  now  to  the  last  and  only  living  person  of 
all  those  theatrical  characters  I  have  promised  you, 
Mrs.  Bracegirdle  ;  who,  I  know,  would  rather  pass  her 
remaining  days  forgotten  as  an  actress,  than  to  have 
her  youth  recollected  in  the  most  favorable  light  I  am 
able  to  place  it  ;  yet,  as  she  is  essentially  necessary  to 
my  theatrical  history,  and  as  I  only  bring  her  back 
to  the  company  of  those  with  whom  she  passed  the 
spring  and  summer  of  her  life,  I  hope  it  will  excuse 
the  liberty  I  take,  in  commemorating  the  delight 
which  the  publick  received  from  her  appearance,  while 
she  was  an  ornament  to  the  theatre. 

"Mrs.  Bracegirdle  was,  now,  but  just  blooming  to 
her  maturity  ;  her  reputation  as  an  actress,  gradually 
rising  with  that  of  her  person  ;  never  any  woman  was 
in  such  general  favor  of  her  spectators,  which  to  the 
last  scene  of  her  dramatic  life,  she  maintained  by  not 
being  unguarded  in  her  private  character.  This  dis- 
cretion contributed,  not  a  little,  to  make  her  the  Cara, 
the  D«rling  of  the  Theatre  :  For  it  will  be  no  extrava- 
gant thing  to  say,  scarce  an  audience  saw  her,  that 
were  less  than  half  of  them  lovers,  without  a  suspected 
favorite  among  them  ;  and  tho'  she  might  be  said  to 
have  been  the  universal  passion,  and  under  the  highest 
temptations,  her  constancy  in  resisting  them  served 
but  to  increase  the  number  of  her  admirers.  And  this 
perhaps  you  will  more  easily  believe,  when  I  extend 
not  my  encomiums  on  her  person,  beyond  a  sincerity 
that  can  be  suspected  ;  for  she  had  no  greater  claim  to 


LIGHTS  LONG  SINCE  EXTINGUISHED.  73 

beauty  than  what  the  most  desirable  brunette  might 
pretend  to.  But  her  youth,  and  hvely  aspect  threw  out 
such  a  glow  of  ■  health,  and  cheerfulness,  that  on  the 
stage  few  spectators  that  were  not  past  it,  could  behold 
her  without  desire.  It  was  even  the  fashion  among  the 
gay,  and  young,  to  have  a  taste  or  te^idre  for  Mrs. 
Bracegirdle.  She  inspired  the  best  authors  to  write  for 
her,  and  two  of  them,  when  they  gave  her  a  lover  in  a 
play,  seem'd  palpably  to  plead  their  own  passions,  and 
make  their  private  court  to  her  m  fictitious  characters. 
In  all  the  chief  parts  she  acted,  the  desirable  was  so 
predominant,  that  no  judge  could  be  cold  enough  to 
consider,  from  what  other  particular  excellence,  she 
became  delightful.  To  speak  critically  of  an  actress, 
that  was  extremely  good  were  as  hazardous  as  to  be 
positive  in  one's  opinion  of  the  best  opera  singer.  Peo- 
ple often  judge  by  comparison,  where  there  is  no  simil- 
itude, in  the  performance.  So  that,  in  this  case,  we 
have  only  taste  to  appeal  to,  and  of  taste  there  can  be 
no  disputing.  I  shall  therefore  only  say  of  Mrs.  Brace- 
girdle,  that  the  most  eminent  authors  always  chose  her 
for  their  favorite  character,  and  shall  leave  that  uncon- 
testable proof  of  her  merit  to  its  own  value.  Yet  let 
me  say,  that  there  were  two  very  different  characters  in 
which  she  acquitted  herself  with  no  common  applause. 
If  anything  could  excuse  that  desperate  extravagance 
of  love,  that  almost  frantic  passion  of  Lee's  Alexander 
the  Great,  it  must  have  been  when  Mrs.  Bracegirdle 
was  his  Statira  ;  as  when  she  acted  Millama7it^  all  the 


74  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

faults,  follies,  and  affectations  of  that  agreeable  tyrant 
were  venially  melted  down  into  so  many  charms,  and 
attractions  of  a  conscious  beauty.  In  other  characters, 
where  singing  was  a  necessary  part  of  them,  her  voice 
and  action  gave  a  pleasure  which  good  sense,  in  those 
days,  was  not  ashamed  to  give  praise  to. 

"She  retired  from  the  stage  in  the  height  of  her 
favor  from  the  publick,  when  most  of  her  contempo- 
raries, whom  she  had  been  bred  up  with,  were  declin- 
ing, in  the  year  1710,  nor  could  she  be  persuaded  to 
return  to  it,  under  new  masters,  upon  the  most  advan- 
tageous terms  that  were  offered  her ;  excepting  one 
day,  about  a  year  after,  to  assist  her  good  friend,  Mr. 
Betterton,  when  she  played  Angelica^  in  Love  for  Love^ 
for  his  benefit.  She  has  still  the  happiness  to  retain 
her  usual  cheerfulness,  to  be,  without  the  transitory 
charms  of  youth,  agreeable." 

The  unfortunate  Mountford,  of  whose  death  the  icilly 
moral  Bracegirdle  was  the  innocent  cause,  stands  out 
as  one  of  the  most  attractive  figures  of  the  early  days 
of  King  William's  reign.  He  was  impressive  in 
tragedy,  irresistible  as  a  lover,  and  brilliant  as  a  come- 
dian ;  his  appearance  was  handsome  and  his  voice  a 
marvel  of  melody.  He  made  vice  so  alluring,  did  this 
* '  Prince  Charming  ' '  of  the  stage,  that  Queen  Mary 
thought  it  was  dangerous  to  see  him  act  the  unprinci- 
pled Rover  in  one  of  the  licentious  Mrs.  Behn's  most 
famous  plays,  and  he  was  known  to  be  the  ' '  glass  of 
fashion  "  and  the  "  mould  of  form  "which  so  inspired 


LIGHTS  LONG   SINCE  EXTINGUISHED.  75 

the  great  Mr.  Wilks  with  the  desire  of  imitation.  "  In 
comedy,"  Gibber  notes,  "  he  gave  the  truest  life  to  what 
we  call  the  fine  gentleman  ;  his  spirit  shone  the  brighter 
for  being  polished  with  decency  :  in  scenes  of  gaiety  he 
never  broke  into  the  regard  that  was  due  to  the  pres- 
ence of  equal,  or  superior  characters,  tho'  inferior  ac- 
tors played  them  ;  he  filled  the  stage,  not  by  elbowing 
and  crossing  it  before  others,  or  disconcerting  their 
action,  but  by  surpassing  them  in  true  and  masterly 
touches  of  nature.*  He  never  laughed  at  his  own 
jest,  unless  the  point  of  his  raillery  upon  another  re- 
quired it.  He  had  a  particular  talent,  in  giving  life  to 
bo7i  mots  and  repartees ;  the  wit  of  the  poet  seem'd 
always  to  come  from  his  extempore,  and  sharpened  into 
more  wit  from  his  brilliant  manner  of  delivering  it. 
.  .  .  The  agreeable  was  so  natural  to  him,  that 
even  in  that  dissolute  character  of  the  Rover  he  seem'd 
to  wash  off  the  guilt  from  vice,  and  gave  it  charm  and 
merit." 

Dashing  Will's  no  less  dashing  wife  Susannah,  after- 
ward to  be  Mrs.  Verbruggen,  was  inimitable  as  a  co- 
quette of  the  type  then  known  on  the  stage,  and  could 
play  a  male  coxcomb  with  remarkable  humor  and  aban- 
don. To  again  quote  Gibber,  whose  cameo-like  sketches 
are  often  so  delightful  that  to  reproduce  them  requires 
no  apology,  it  appears  that  she  was  "mistress  of  more 
variety  of  humor  than  I  ever  knew  in  any  one  woman 

*  This  is  a  lesson  that  a  few  modern  players  might  take  to 
heart. 


76        ECHOES  OF   THE  FLA  YHOUSE. 

actress.  This  variety,  too,  was  attended  with  an  equal 
vivacity,  which  made  her  excellent  in  characters  ex- 
tremely different.  .  .  .  Nor  was  her  humor  limited 
to  her  sex,  for  while  her  shape  permitted  she  was  a 
more  adroit  pretty  fellow  than  is  usually  seen  upon  the 
stage  :  her  easy  air,  action,  mien,  and  gesture  quite 
changed  from  the  quoif,  to  the  cock'd  hat,  and  cavalier 
in  fashion.  People  were  so  fond  of  seeing  her  a  man, 
that  when  the  part  of  Bays  in  the  Rehearsal  had  for 
some  time  lain  dormant  she  was  desired  to  take  it  up, 
which  I  have  seen  her  act  with  all  the  true,  coxcombly 
spirit,  and  humor,  that  the  sufficiency  of  the  character 
required." 

Of  her  Melantha  in  Marriage  h  la  Mode  the  same 
critic  chronicles  that  it  was  *  *  as  finished  an  imperti- 
nence as  ever  fluttered  in  a  drawing-room,  and  seems 
to  contain  the  most  complete  system  of  female  foppery 
that  could  possibly  be  crowded  into  the  tortured  form 
of  a  fine  lady.  Her  language,  dress,  motion,  manners, 
soul,  and  body  are  in  a  continual  hurry  to  be  something 
more  than  is  necessary  or  commendable.  And  though 
1  doubt  it  will  be  a  vain  labor  to  offer  you  a  just 
likeness  of  Mrs.  Mountford's  action,  yet  the  fantastick 
impression  is  still  so  strong  in  my  memory,  that  I  can- 
not help  saying  something  tho'  fantastically,  about  it. 
The  first  ridiculous  airs  that  break  from  her  are  upon 
a  gallant,  never  seen  before,  who  delivers  her  a  letter 
from  her  father,  recommending  him  to  her  good  graces, 
as  an  honorable  lover.   Here  now,  one  would  think  she 


LIGHTS  LONG  SINCE  EXTINGUISHED.  y; 

might  naturally  show  a  little  of  the  sex's  decent  re- 
serve, tho'  never  so  slightly  covered!  No,  sir  ;  not  a  tittle 
of  it ;  modesty  is  the  virtue  of  a  poor-soul' d  country  gen- 
tlewoman ;  she  is  too  much  a  court  lady  to  be  under  so 
vulgar  a  confusion  ;  she  reads  the  letter,  therefore,  with 
a  careless,  dropping  lip,  and  an  erected  brow,  humming 
it  hastily  over,  as  if  she  were  impatient  to  outgo  her 
father's  commands,  by  making  a  complete  conquest  of 
him  at  once ;  and  that  the  letter  might  not  embarrass 
her  attack,  crack  !  she  crumbles  it  at  once  into  her 
palm  and  pours  upon  him  the  whole  artillery  of  airs, 
eyes,  and  motion  ;  down  goes  her  dainty,  diving  body 
to  the  ground,  as  if  she  were  sinking  under  the  con- 
scious load  of  her  own  attractions ;  then  launches  into 
a  flood  of  fine  language,  and  compliment,  still  playing 
her  chest  forward,  in  fifty  falls  and  ri.sings,  like  a  swan 
upon  the  waving  water  ;  and,  to  complete  her  imperti- 
nence, she  is  so  rapidly  fond  of  her  own  wit,  that  she 
will  not  give  her  lover  leave  to  praise  it :  silent,  assent- 
ing bows,  and  vain  endeavors  to  speak,  are  all  the 
share  of  the  conversation  he  is  admitted  to,  which,  at 
last,  he  is  relieved  from  by  her  engagement  to  half  a 
score  visits,  which  she  swims  from  him  to  make,  with 
a  promise  to  return  in  a  twinkling." 

With  due  allowance  for  eighteenth  century  affecta- 
tion, this  is  as  speaking  a  criticism  as  one  could  wish 
for,  even  in  this  epoch  of  analytical  discussion,  when 
the  charms  of  an  actress  are  put  under  the  dramatic 
editor's  microscope  and  described  in  cold  type  with  as 


;8  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

much  minuteness  as  though  Mr.  Howells  were  dissect- 
ing one  of  his  commonplace  heroines.  But  to  dispose 
of  the  blithesome  Mountford,  let  it  be  added  that  in  her 
last  years  *  she  became  mildly  deranged.  It  is  related 
that  one  day,  when  her  mind  was  clearer  than  usual, 
she  demanded  to  know  what  play  was  to  be  performed 
at  Drury  I^ane  that  evening,  and  showed  unusual  in- 
terest on  hearing  that  it  was  to  be  Hamlet.  The  gen- 
tle Ophelia  had  been  one  of  her  favorite  parts,  curiously 
enough,  and  as  the  thought  of  past  triumphs  awoke 
her  dormant  intellect  she  determined  to  play  the  char- 
acter once  again.  She  contrived  to  escape  from  her 
attendants,  hurried  to  the  theatre,  and  concealing  her- 
self there  until  the  cue  for  Ophelia's  appearance  in  the 
mad  scene,  she  suddenly  pushed  by  the  actress  to  whom 
the  role  was  assigned,  stepped  upon  the  stage  and  rep- 
resented the  distraught  heroine  with  an  effectiveness 
and  wild  realism  that  electrified  the  audience.  It  was 
her  farewell  to  the  boards  ;  she  was  taken  home,  and 
died  soon  after.  The  story  is  a  trifle  theatrical,  and 
may  be  apocryphal,  but  who  cares  to  question  it?  The 
idea  of  a  demented  actress  representing  with  horrible 
power  the  insanity  of  Ophelia  is  in  itself  essentially 
dramatic,  and  no  one  should  grudge  Mrs.  Mountford 
the  benefit  of  so  unconventional  an  exit. 

Among  others   in  the   talented  company  at   Drury 
lyane  whom  the  invaluable  Colley  has  painted  for  the 
edification  of  succeeding  generations,  was  that  "cor- 
*  She  died  about  1703, 


LIGHTS  LONG  SINCE  EXTINGUISHED.  yg 

rect  and  natural  comedian,"  Cave  Underhill.  He 
seems  to  have  been  a  first-class  actor  consigned  to 
second-class  roles  ;  "his  particular  excellence  was  in 
characters  that  may  be  called  still-life, ' '  otherwise  the 
"  stiff,  the  heavy  and  the  stupid."  He  was  especially 
admired  for  his  Grave-digger  in  Hamlet,  and  *'  the 
author  of  the  Tatler  recommends  him  to  the  favor  of 
the  town  upon  that  play  's  being  acted  for  his  benefit, 
wherein,  after  his  age  had  some  years  obliged  him  to 
leave  the  stage,  he  came  on  again,  for  that  day,  to 
perform  his  old  part ;  but,  alas  !  so  worn,  and  disabled 
as  if  himself  was  to  have  lain  in  the  grave  he  was  dig- 
ging ;  when  he  could  no  more  excite  laughter,  his 
infirmities  were  dismissed  with  pity." 

There  was  Tony  Leigh,  too,  of  whom  the  appreciative 
'Charles  II.  used  to  speak  as  "My  actor,"  and  the 
natural  Nokes.  "  I  saw  him  once,"  says  Cibber  of  the 
latter,  ' '  giving  an  account  of  some  table  talk  to  another 
actor  behind  the  scenes,  which  a  man  of  quality,  acci- 
dentally listening  to,  was  so  deceived  by  his  manner 
that  he  asked  him  if  that  was  a  new  play  he  was  re- 
hearsing ? ' '  This  anecdote  was  related  to  show  that 
Nokes  had  the  same  manner  on  and  off"  the  stage. 
"  His  person  was  of  the  middle  size,  his  voice  clear  and 
audible ;  his  natural  countenance  grave  and  sober  ; 
but  the  moment  he  spoke  the  settled  seriousness  of  his 
features  was  utterly  discharg'd,  and  a  dry  drolling  or 
laughing  levity  took  such  full  possession  of  him,  that  I 
can  only  refer  the  idea  of  him  to  3'our  imagination.     In 


8o  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

some  of  his  low  characters,  that  became  it,  he  had  a 
shuffling  shamble  in  his  gait,  with  so  contented  an 
ignorance  in  his  aspect  and  an  awkward  absurdity  in 
his  gesture,  that  had  you  not  known  him,  you  could 
not  have  believ'd  that  naturally  he  could  have  had  a 
grain  of  common  sense.  In  a  word,  I  am  tempted  to 
sum  up  the  character  of  Nokes  as  a  comedian,  in  a 
parodie  of  what  Shakespeare's  Mark  Antony  says  of 
Brutus  as  a  hero  : 

*  His  life  was  laughter,  and  the  ludicrous 
So  mixt,  in  him,  that  nature  might  stand  up, 
And  say  to  all  the  world, — this  was  an  actor.'  " 

In  a  far  different  line  of  work  was  Sanford,  who  is 
said  to  have  been  the  best  impersonator  of  stage  villains 
ever  known.  So  thoroughly  was  he  identified  with 
such  parts  that  the  audiences  would  tolerate  him  in 
none  others,  and  on  one  occasion  the  house  became 
ver}^  indignant  because  he  ventured  to  appear  as  an 
honest  man.  His  private  character  was  amiable,  but  a 
wicked  person  they  would  have  him  on  the  stage. 
Physical  defects  had  not  a  little  to  do  with  the  accident 
that  first  cast  him  for  this  kind  of  parts  ;  he  had  a  de- 
formed body,  and  it  can  readily  be  imagined  that  he 
could  have  made  a  highly  popular  Richard  III.  ' '  Had 
Sandford  lived  in  Shakespeare's  time,"  according  to 
Cibber,  "  his  judgment  must  have  chose  him,  above  all 
other  actors,  to  have  played  his  Richard  the  Third ;  I 
leave  his  person  out  of  the  question,  which,  tho'  nat- 
urally made  for  it,  yet  that  would  have  been  the  least 


LIGHTS  LONG  SINCE  EXTINGUISHED,  8i 

part  of  his  recommendation ;  Sandford  had  stronger 
claims  to  it ;  he  had  sometimes  an  uncouth  stateliness 
in  his  motion,  a  harsh  and  sullen  pride  of  speech,  a 
meditating  brow,  a  stern  aspect,  occasionally  changing 
into  an  almost  ludicrous  triumph  over  all  goodness  and 
virtue  :  from  thence  falling  into  the  most  assuasive 
gentleness,  and  soothing  candor  of  a  designing  heart. 
These,  I  say,  must  have  preferred  him  to  it ;  these 
would  have  been  colors  so  essentially  shining  in  that 
character  that  it  will  be  no  dispraise  to  that  great  author 
to  say,  Sanford  must  have  shewn  as  many  masterly 
strokes  in  it  (had  he  ever  acted  it)  as  are  visible  in  the 
writing  it." 

If  Sanford  entertained  London  bj^  his  heavy  villains 
Richard  Estcourt  was  no  less  acceptable  from  his  won- 
derful powers  as  a  mimic.  His  life  was  a  curious  one, 
beginning  as  it  did  on  the  stage  and  all  but  ending  in  a 
tavern  of  which  he  was  the  proprietor.  He  was  born  in 
1668  at  Tewkesbury,  and  received  his  education  in  the 
I^atin  school  at  that  place,  only  to  hurry  off  as  soon  as 
he  could  to  act  with  a  lot  of  strolling  comedians.  It  is 
said  that  he  made  his  debut  with  these  wanderers  in 
the  feminine  role  of  Roxana  in  the  Rival  Queens^  choos- 
ing this  part  so  as  to  conceal  his  identity.  But  he  was 
unable  to  escape  detection,  and,  after  being  obliged  to 
return  to  his  home  he  had  the  supreme  mortification  of 
seeing  himself  apprenticed  to  a  I^ondon  apothecary. 
Medicine  bottles,  mortars,  and  pestles  were  by  no  means 
to  young  Kstcourt's  taste,  so  he  took  French  leave  of 

6 


82  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

his  master,  drifted  about  England  and  Ireland  and 
finally  brought  up  at  Drury  L^ane.  Here  his  powers 
as  a  mimic  brought  him  into  favorable  notice  ;  he  imi- 
tated the  voices,  gestures,  and  methods  of  prominent 
actors,  and  earned  the  friendship  of  such  men  as  the 
Duke  of  Marlborough  and  Sir  Richard  Steele.  Steele 
helped  to  immortalize  his  friend  by  writing  of  him  and 
contended  that  *  *  the  best  man  he  knew  of  for  heighten- 
ing the  revel-gaiety  of  a  company  was  Dick  Kstcourt. 
Merry  tales,  accompanied  with  apt  gestures  and  lively 
representations  of  circumstances  and  persons  beguile 
the  gravest  mind  into  a  consent  to  be  as  humorous  as 
himself.  Add  to  this  that  when  a  man  is  in  his  good 
grace,  he  has  a  mimickry  that  does  not  debase  the  per- 
son he  represents,  but  which,  taking  from  the  gravity 
of  the  character,  adds  to  the  agreeableness  of  it." 

The  death  of  Kstcourt  was  soon  followed  by  that  of 
George  Powell,  whose  name  will  be  found  opposite  the 
part  of  Fortius  in  the  original  programme  for  Addison's 
Cato.  Addison  has  thus  alluded  in  the  Spectator 
to  the  first  Fortius,  in  a  way  that  indicates  the  thorough 
knowledge,  on  the  part  of  this  actor,  of  the  advantages 
of  theatrical  clap- trap  :  ' '  The  warm  and  passionate 
parts  of  tragedy  are  always  the  most  taking  with  the 
audience ;  for  which  reason  we  often  see  the  players 
pronouncing  in  all  the  violence  of  action  several  parts 
of  the  tragedy  which  the  author  writ  with  great  temper, 
and  designed  that  they  should  have  been  so  acted.  I 
have  seen  Powell  very  often  raise  himself  a  loud  clap 


LIGHTS  LOA'G  SINCE  EXTINGUISHED.  83 

by  this  artifice."  The  author  of  Cafo  admits,  how- 
ever, that  Powell  * '  is  excellently  formed  for  a  tragedian, 
and,  when  he  pleases,  deserves  the  admiration  of  the 
best  judges." 

This  player  never  occupied  a  position  of  the  com- 
manding sort,  although  he  appears  to  have  had  a  very 
clear  belief  that  he  was  the  equal  of  Betterton.  When 
the  latter  had  become  old  and  gouty,  Powell  announced 
that  he  would  play  Falstaff  after  the  exact  manner  of 
the  great  actor,  and  he  not  only  mimicked  the  style 
and  voice  of  the  original  but  also  had  the  brutality  to 
burlesque  his  infirmities.  Consequently  we  can  hardly 
wax  sentimental  in  learning  that  his  career  was  ruined 
by  intemperance  or  that  he  died  in  poverty,  with  the 
bailiffs  pursuing  him  to  the  grave. 

With  Powell  must  come  to  a  close  this  brief  sketch 
of  the  brightest  lights  among  the  remarkable  players 
who  acted  as  a  connecting  link  between  the  end  of  the 
seventeenth  and  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
While  they  dominate  the  scene  changes  are  taking 
place  in  the  drama  ;  the  old  order  of  things  is  vanish- 
ing, new  faces  are  appearing,  and  the  theatre  of  the 
Restoration  has  already  passed  into  history,  to  be  con- 
demned for  its  licentiousness  but  lovingly  remembered 
for  the  sake  of  the  gifted  men  and  charming  women 
who  gave  it  such  brilliance.  We  are  now  in  the  reign 
of  **  good  Queen  Anne  "  ;  let  us  tarry  for  a  chapter  to 
glance  at  theatrical  conditions  during  the  golden  era  of 
this  amiable  but  commonplace  sovereign. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THK  OI.D  re:gimk  and  the;  n^w. 

"  T  T  OW  do  you  employ  your  time  now  ?  "  a  lady 
X  X      ^^  quality  is  asked  in  the  early  days  of  the 

eighteenth  century. 

'*  I  lie  in  bed,"  she  says,  ''till  noon,  dress  all  the 
afternoon,  dine  in  the  evening,  and  play  at  cards  till 
midnight." 

**  How  do  you  spend  the  Sabbath  ?  " 

"In  chit-chat." 

''What  do  you  talk  of?" 

' '  New  fashions  and  new  plays. ' ' 

"  How  often  do  you  go  to  Church  ?  " 

"  Twice  a  3'ear  or  oftener,  according  as  my  husband 
gives  me  new  clothes. ' ' 

' '  Why  do  you  go  to  church  when  you  have  new 
clothes?" 

"  To  see  other  people's  finery,  and  to  show  my  own, 
and  to  laugh  at  those  scurvy,  out-of- fashion  creatures 
that  come  there  for  devotion." 

"  Pray,  Madam,  what  books  do  you  read  ?  " 

"  I  read  lew'd  plays  and  winning  romances."  * 

*  From  the  English  Lady's  Catechism^  first  published  in  1703. 
84 


THE   OLD  rAgIME   AND    THE  NEW.  85 

This  very  truthful  lady  whose  frankness  gives  a 
fairly  correct  idea  of  the  daily  habits  of  contemporary 
women  of  fashion,  might  have  added  that  she  went  to 
the  theatre,  presumably  Drury  I^ane  or  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields,  on  the  two  or  three  evenings  in  the  week  when 
performances  were  given,  and  that  when  she  saw  a 
*'lew'd  play"  she  was  better  pleased  than  if  the  bill 
were  Shakespearian.  In  all  probability  she  belonged 
to  the  bevy  of  coquettish  damsels  whom  Addison  has 
immortalized  in  one  of  his  brightest  essays. 

"Some  years  ago,"  he  relates  in  the  Spectator,^  *'  I 
was  at  the  tragedy  of  Macbeth,  and  unfortunately  placed 
myself  under  a  woman  of  quality  that  is  since  dead, 
who,  as  I  found  by  the  noise  she  made,  was  newly  re- 
turned from  France. t  A  little  before  the  rising  of  the 
curtain,  sh-e  broke  out  into  a  loud  soliloquy,  'When 
will  the  dear  witches  enter  ?  '  and  immediately  upon 
their  first  appearance,  asked  a  lady  that  sat  three  boxes 
from  her  on  her  right  hand,  if  those  witches  were  not 
charming  creatures.  A  little  after,  as  Betterton  was 
in  one  of  the  finest  speeches  of  the  play,  she  shook  her 
fan  at  another  lady  who  sat  as  far  on  the  left  hand,  and 
told  her  with  a  whisper  that  might  be  heard  all  over 
the  pit,  '  we  must  not  expect  to  see  Balloon  to-night.' 
Not  long  after,  calling  out  to  a  young  baronet  by  his 
name,  who  sat  three  seats  before  me,  she  asked  him 

*  No.  45,  April  izi,  1711. 

t  A  trip  to  France  was  considered  very  comme  ilfaut  in  Ad- 
^iSQn's  day. 


86  ECHOES  OF    THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

whether  Macbeth' s  wife  was  still  alive  ;  and  before 
he  could  give  an  answer,  fell  a  talking  of  the  ghost 
of  Banquo.  She  had  by  this  time  formed  a  little 
audience  to  herself,  and  fixed  the  attention  of  all 
about  her.  But  as  I  had  a  mind  to  hear  the  play, 
I  got  out  of  the  sphere  of  her  impertinence,  and 
planted  myself  in  one  of  the  most  remotest  corners 
of  the  pit." 

Addison  was  not  the  only  unfortunate  who  had  ex- 
periences of  this  sort — for  the  matter  of  that,  the  gen- 
tle art  of  talking,  in  and  out  of  the  boxes,  and  drawing 
attention  from  the  stage,  is  still  cultivated  in  some 
quarters — and  it  must  have  been  a  hard  thing  in  those 
days  to  keep  the  uninterrupted  run  of  a  performance. 
There  seems  to  have  been  a  charming  absence  of  self- 
restraint  among  the  patrons  of  the  drama,  between  the 
disturbances  so  often  created  in  the  upper  gallery  by 
the  servants  of  the  aristocratic  visitors,  and  the  talk- 
ing, walking  about  the  theatre,  and  general  want  of 
consideration  among  the  ' '  quality  ' '  themselves.  The 
**  plain  people."  in  the  middle  class  of  life,  who  were 
given  to  neither  coquetry,  gallantry,  nor  good  clothes, 
and  their  quiet,  studious  superiors  who  went  to  the 
play  for  the  play's  sake,  must  have  launched  many  a 
secret,  but  nevertheless  fervent  anathema  against  the 
frivolous  disturbers  of  their  peace.  But  democracy 
was  not  as  potent  a  factor  in  the  theatre  as  out  of  it, 
and  the  noisy  airs  and  graces  of  the  women,  the  star- 
ing, the  drivelling  gossip  and  impertinences  of  the  men, 


THE   OLD  REGIME  AND    THE  NEW,  8/ 

the  flirting  with  the  pretty  orange  girls,*  and  the 
general  arrogance  of  upper- tendom,  went  on  un- 
checked. 

But  the  greatest  confusion  came  from  a  custom  which 
Anne,  who  was  no  enthusiastic  admirer  of  the  theatre, 
but  who  had  a  keen  sense  of  decorum  and  decency, 
tried  hard  to  correct.  This  was  in  allowing  members 
of  the  audience  to  sit  on  the  stage  during  a  perform- 
ance, mingle  with  the  actors,  stroll  behind  the  scenes, 
and  even  penetrate  into  the  dressing-rooms  of  the  ac- 
tresses. It  is  hard  to  picture  such  a  helter-skelter  state 
of  affairs  in  the  nineteenth  century,  when  even  the 
meanest  theatre  has  stringent  regulations  as  to  the  ad- 
mission of  outsiders  into  the  quarters  of  the  performers. 
•  Imagine  Mr.  Irving  acting  Hamlet  with  some  of  his 
audience  nonchalantly  reclining  on  chairs  or  sofas 
placed  near  the  wings  ;  or  worse  still,  think  of  empty- 
headed  specimens  of  the  jeuness  doree  calmly  walking 
around  the  players  and  almost  jostling  them,  while 
the  latter  were  speaking  their  lines  ;  then  stumbling 
out  among  the  scene- shifters,  and  finally  ending  by 
superintending  the  toilets  and  make-up  of  the  femi- 
nine members  of  the  company.  Yet  an  anomaly  like 
this  was  patiently  endured  when  Anne  came  to  the 
throne,  probably  because  the  public  was  hardened  to 
the  whole  wretched  business.  But  the  incongruity  of 
it  gradually  dawned  upon  the  theatre-goers,  and  the 

*The  ostensible  duty  of  the  orange  girls  was  to  serve  refresh- 
ments between  the  acts. 


88  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

Queen  herself  undertook  to  institute  a  much-needed 
reform  in  this  direction. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  virtues  of  the  sover- 
eign she  had  no  very  clear  perception  of  the  artistic, 
and  it  is  evident  that  her  action  came  from  a  desire  to 
prevent  immorality  rather  than  from  any  hope  to  pre- 
serve harmony  and  realism  on  the  stage.  That  the 
abuse  referred  to  was  calculated  to  foster  a  looseness 
and  want  of  decency  in  the  relation  between  the  ac- 
tresses and  the  gentlemen  who  haunted  their  apart- 
ments is  a  fact  that  requires  no  elaboration.  Fully 
conscious  of  this,  Anne  issued  a  proclamation  setting 
forth  that  "no  person  of  what  quality  soever"  should 
"presume  to  go  behind  the  stage,  either  before,  or 
during  the  acting  of  any  play."  It  was  further  or- 
dered "  that  no  woman  be  allowed  or  presume  to  wear 
a  vizard  mask  in  either  of  the  theatres.  And  that  no 
person  come  into  either  house  without  paying  the 
prices  established  for  their  respective  places." 

The  beaux  who  thought  half  the  fun  of  going  to 
the  theatre  consisted  in  ogling  the  actresses  behind  the 
scenes  or  boldly  surveying  the  audience  in  front,  were 
loth  to  obey  the  royal  commands.  They  died  hard,  as 
it  were,  and  it  was  not  until  about  1712,  after  another 
proclamation  had  been  issued,  that  the  practice  was 
discontinued.  The  brilliant  *  *  Dick  ' '  Steele  must  have 
been  delighted  when  the  end  came,  for  he  has  some- 
thing to  say  in  a  number  of  the  Spectator  about  the 
unsolicited  performance  of  a  young  person  who  assisted 


THE   OLD  rAgIME  AND    THE  NEW.  89 

in  presenting  the  play  of  Philaster.  This  was  * '  a  very- 
lusty  fellow,  but  withal  a  sort  of  beau,  who  getting 
into  one  of  the  side-boxes  in  the  stage  before  the  cur- 
tain drew,  was  disposed  to  show  the  whole  audience 
his  activity  by  leaping  over  the  spikes  :  he  passed  from 
thence  to  one  of  the  entering  doors,  where  he  took  snuff 
with  tolerable  good  grace,  displayed  his  fine  clothes, 
made  two  or  three  feint  passes  at  the  curtain  with  his 
cane,  and  faced  about  and  appeared  at  t'other  door. 
Here  he  affected  to  survey  the  whole  house,  bowed  and 
smiled  at  random,  and  then  showed  his  teeth,  which 
were  some  of  them  indeed  very  white.  After  this  he 
retired  behind  the  curtain,  and  obliged  us  with  several 
views  of  his  person  from  every  opening.  During  the 
time  of  acting  he  appeared  frequently  in  the  prince's 
apartment,  [one  of  the  scenes  of  Philaster]  made  one 
at  the  hunting  match,  and  was  very  forward  in  the 
rebellion." 

Once  that  these  gentlemen  so  **  very  forward  "  had 
to  retire  from  the  unwilling  gaze  of  the  audience  one 
of  the  most  striking  differences  between  the  old-fash- 
ioned theatre  and  that  of  to-day  was  removed.  In 
some  respects  the  conditions  were  very  much  the  same 
then  as  now.  Actors  often  ranted  in  a  way  to  make 
the  judicious  grieve  (this  sorrow  we  shall  have  always 
with  us)  ;  there  was  the  inevitable  amount  of  sham, 
fustian,  and  clap-trap  about  many  things  theatrical, 
and  the  gallery  was  appealed  to  with  an  eagerness 
worthy  of  a  modern  *' ham-fatter , "  who  will  tear  the 


go  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

proverbial  passion  into  as  many  tatters  as  physical 
strength  and  an  unmerciful  Providence  will  allow. 
There  were  no  melodramas,  so  called,  but  the  mouths 
of  heroes  were  filled  with  bombast,  producing  "such 
sentiments  as  proceed  rather  from  a  swelling  than  a 
greatness  of  mind, ' '  and  *  *  unnatural  exclamations, 
curses,  vows,  blasphemies,  a  defiance  of  mankind,  and 
an  outraging  of  the  gods ' '  frequently  passed  upon  the 
audience  for  "towering  thoughts,"  and  accordingly 
met  "with  infinite  applause."*  There  were  "blood 
and  thunder"  dramas,  in  which  a  general  killing  of 
the  principal  characters  formed  an  agreeable  feature  ; 
plays  in  which  the  enforced  use  of  the  handkerchief  by 
tearful  females  was  aimed  at,  and  comedies  constructed, 
as  the  play-bills  would  now  put  it,  for  laughing  pur- 
poses only.  Vaudeville,  (whereby  is  meant  variety  en- 
tertainment) alleged  * '  farce-comedy  ' '  (which  is  really 
not  farce-comedy  at  all)  and  dime  museums  were  un- 
known, but  their  places  were  well  supplied  by  puppet 
shows,  wax  works,  including  the  image  of  a  certain 
countess  who  had  "three  hundred  and  sixty-five  chil- 
dren, all  born  at  one  birth,"  tight- rope  walking,  acro- 
batic display,  a  gentleman  without  arms  or  hands,  who 
wrote  "very  fine  with  his  mouth,"  a  lad  covered  with 
hog  bristles,  and  any  quantity  of  freaks,  wild  beasts, 
and  diverse  objects  of  curious  interest. 

The  scheme  of  interjecting  a  little  dancing  and  sing- 
ing, or,  rather,  a  great  deal  of  it,  into  a  performance  of 
*  Addison. 


THE   OLD  REGIME  AND    THE  NEW.  9 1 

the  lighter  vein,  which  ivS  really  the  basis  of  the  modern 
farce-comedy,  had  exemplification  even  then,  as  the 
following  advertisement  from  the  lyondon  Daily  Cou- 
rant^  plainly  shows  : 

*' At  the  Theatre  in  Dorset  Gardens,  this  day  being 
Friday  the  30th  of  April,  will  be  presented  a  farce 
call'd  The  Cheats  of  Scapin.  And  a  comedy  of  two 
acts  only,  call'd  The  Comical  Rivals,  or  the  School  Boy. 
With  several  Italian  Sonatas  by  Signior  Gasperini  and 
others.  And  the  Devonshire  Girl  being  now  upon  her 
return  to  the  City  of  Exeter,  will  perform  three  differ- 
ent dances,  particularly  her  last  new  entry  in  imitation 
of  Mademoiselle  Subligni,  and  the  Whip  of  Dunboyne 
by  Mr.  Claxton  her  Master,  being  the  last  time  of  their 
performance  till  winter.  And  at  the  desire  of  several 
persons  of  quality  (hearing  that  Mr.  Pinkethman  hath 
hired  the  two  famous  French  girls  lately  arrived  from 
the  Emperor's  Court).  They  will  perform  several 
dances  on  the  rope  upon  the  stage,  being  improved  to 
that  degree,  far  exceeding  all  others  in  that  art.  And 
their  Father  presents  you  with  the  Newest  Humors  of 
Harlequin  as  performed  by  him  before  the  Grand  Sig- 
nior at  Constantinople.  Also  the  famous  Mr.  Evans, 
lately  arrived  from  Vienna,  will  show  you  wonders  of 
another  kind,  vaulting  on  the  manag'd  horse,  being  the 
greatest  master  of  that  kind  in  the  world.  To  begin 
at  Five  so  that  all  may  be  done  by  Nine  a  Clock. ' ' 

Thej^  did  some  things  better  in  that  quaint  period. 
*  April  30, 1703. 


92  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

The  manager  might  furnish  one  with  farce,  comedy, 
and  specialties  all  in  the  same  evening,  but  he  kept 
one  distinct  from  the  other  ;  at  present  the  danc- 
ing, the  singing,  the  horse-vaulting,  et  caetera,  are 
integral  parts  of  the  "  play,"  with  the  result  that  the 
spectator,  however  much  he  may  enjoy  the  incidental 
features,  is  generally  in  a  state  of  hopeless  bewilder- 
ment as  to  the  nature  or  plot  of  the  farce  itself. 

So  far  as  the  morals  of  the  plays  go,  the  stage  has 
greatly  altered  for  the  better.  Even  during  Anne's 
time  much  improvement  in  tone  was  to  be  noted,  but 
the  foul  atmosphere  of  the  Restoration  still  pervaded  the 
theatres  and  spoiled  many  a  fine  work,  whose  author, 
yielding  to  the  taste  of  the  age,  tarnished  the  brilliancy 
of  his  wit  by  the  introduction  of  nastiness  and  in- 
nuendo. So  deeply  rooted  had  become  this  habit  of 
catering  to  the  worst  feeling  of  the  audience  that  when 
Colley  Gibber  (whose  career  will  be  dwelt  upon  later) 
sought  to  get  out  of  the  beaten  path  by  writing  so  com- 
paratively clean  a  comedy  as  The  Careless  Husband 
the  town  was  almost  nonplussed.  The  hero.  Lord 
Morelove,  was  not  the  licentious  lover  of  old,  with  the 
manners  of  a  gentleman  and  the  heart  of  a  libertine  ; 
on  the  contrary  he  proved  honest,  without  being  prud- 
ish, and  it  may  well  be  imagined  how  disappointed 
were  certain  frequenters  of  the  theatre  at  such  a  change 
oi  treatment. 

In  one  of  Steele's  comedies,  however,  exception  was 
taken  to  a  sentiment  put  into  the  mouth  of  a  certain 


THE   OLD  rAgIME  AND    THE  NEW.  93 

character,  and  some  time  later  Sir  Richard  very  sen- 
sibly modified  the  passage  which  had  proved  so  ob- 
jectionable even  to  several  among  his  well-seasoned 
clientelle.  The  play  was  The  Funeral,  or  Grief  a  la 
Mode,  wherein  those  very  necessary  and  respectable 
persons,  the  undertakers,  were  satirized  with  a  delight- 
ful humor  and  originality  that  contributed  largely  to 
its  success.  Steele  hinself  apologized,  through  the 
medium  of  the  Spectator,*  for  the  offending  lines — 
which  were  by  no  means  out  of  the  way  as  things  went 
in  those  easy-going  days,  and  pleaded  in  extenuation 
that  "  if  the  audience  would  but  consider  the  difficulty 
of  keeping  up  a  sprightly  dialogue  for  five  acts  to- 
gether, they  would  allow  a  writer,  when  he  wants  wit, 
and  cannot  please  any  otherwise,  to  help  it  out  with  a 
little  smuttiness.  .  .  .  When  the  author  cannot 
strike  out  of  himself  any  more  of  that  which  he  has 
superior  to  those  who  make  up  the  bulk  of  his  audience, 
his  natural  recourse  is  to  that  which  he  has  in  common 
with  them  ;  and  a  description  which  gratifies  a  sensual 
appetite  will  please  when  the  author  has  nothing  about 
him  to  delight  a  refined  imagination." 

A  plausible  excuse,  especially  for  Dick,  but  think  of 
a  dramatist  being  so  frank  in  this  year  of  grace,  1895. 

Addison  took  a  much  higher  view  of  the  moral  phase 
of  play  writing.  '*  It  is  one  of  the  most  unaccount- 
able things  in  our  age,"  he  mourns,  "  that  the  lewed- 
ness  of  our  theatre,  should  be  so  much  complained  of, 
*  No.  51,  April  28,  1711. 


94  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLA  Y HO  USE, 

and  so  little  redressed.  It  is  to  be  hoped,  that  some 
time  or  other  we  may  be  at  leisure  to  restrain  the  licen- 
tiousness of  the  theatre,  and  make  it  contribute  its 
assistance  to  the  advancement  of  morality  and  to  the 
reformation  of  the  age.*  As  matters  stand  at  present, 
multitudes  are  shut  out  from  this  noble  diversion  by 
reason  of  those  abuses  and  corruptions  that  accompany 
it.  A  father  is  often  afraid  that  his  daughter  should 
be  ruined  by  these  entertainments,  which  were  invented 
for  the  accomplishment  and  refining  of  human  nature. 
The  Athenian  and  Roman  plays  were  written  with 
such  a  regard  to  morality,  that  Socrates  used  to  fre- 
quent the  one  and  Cicero  the  other.  .  .  .  On  the 
contrary,  cuckoldom  is  the  basis  of  most  of  our  modern 
plays.  If  an  alderman  appears  upon  the  stage,  yo\x 
may  be  sure  it  is  to  be  cuckolded.  An  husband  that  is 
a  little  grave  or  elderly  generally  meets  with  the  same 
fate.  Knights  and  baronets,  country  squires,  and  jus- 
tices of  the  quorum,  come  up  to  town  for  no  other  pur- 
pose. I  have  seen  poor  Dogget  cuckolded  in  all  his  ca- 
pacities. In  short  our  English  writers  are  as  frequently 
severe  upon  this  innocent,  unhappy  creature  commonly 
known  by  the  name  of  a  cuckold  as  the  ancient  comic 
writers  were  upon  an  eating  parasite,  or  a  vainglorious 
soldier. 

*  *  At  the  same  time  the  poet  so  contrives  matters  that 

*  Addison  says  in  a  foot-note  concerning  the  reformation  of 

the  age  :     "Impossible.     No  play  will  take,  that  is  not  adapted 

to  the  prevailing  manners.     But  to  flatter  the  age  is  not  the 

way  to  reform  it." 


THE   OLD  rAgiME  AND    THE  NEW.  95 

the  two  criminals  are  the  favorites  of  the  audience. 
We  sit  still,  and  wish  well  to  them  through  the  whole 
play,  are  pleased  when  they  meet  with  proper  opportu- 
nities, and  are  out  of  humor  when  they  are  disappointed. 
The  truth  of  it  is,  the  accomplished  gentleman  upon 
the  English  stage  is  the  person  that  is  familiar  with 
other  men's  wives  and  indifferent  to  his  own  ;  as  the 
fine  woman  is  generall}^  a  composition  of  sprightliness 
and  falsehood." 

When  Addison  thus  wailed  over  the  degeneracy  of 
the  drama  better  times  were  coming  ;  the  curious  min- 
gling of  wit,  sparkle,  and  undisguised  obscenity  was  giv- 
ing way  to  a  more  sedate  and  classic  style  of  composition, 
and  morality  was  to  be  the  gainer,  even  though  one 
might  often  miss  the  abandon  and  unconventionality 
of  the  old-fashioned  school.  It  would  be  like  the  tran- 
sition from  an  unrestrained,  free-and-easy  country  dance 
to  the  stately,  dignified,  and  not  alwaj^s  exciting  minuet. 

Dryden,  one  of  the  greatest  offenders  against  good 
taste,  was  now  dead,  although  his  plays,  poor  stuff  that 
some  of  them  seem,  in  the  light  of  modern  standards, 
were  still  regarded  with  favor. 

Congreve,  whose  epigrammatic  wit  and  artificial  yet 
none  the  less  undeniable  charm  were  often  disgraced  by 
the  most  unblushing  ribaldry,  had  practically  ceased  to 
write  for  the  stage,  and  evinced  more  anxiety  to  be  re- 
garded as  a  private  gentleman  than  as  a  dramatist  or  lit- 
terateur. Possibly  he  regretted  some  of  his  broadness 
of  expression,  and  foresaw  that  the  eighteenth  century, 


96  ECHOES  OP   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

which  had  come  in  like  a  young  rake,  would  go  out  as  a 
very  proper,  punctilious  old  gentleman,  primed  with 
nice  sentiments  and  abhorring  vulgarity  and  bluntness. 
Whatever  may  have  been  his  feelings  on  so  delicate  a 
subject  we  find  him,  some  years  later,  rebuking  the  ad- 
miring Voltaire  for  having  paid  homage  to  him  as  an 
author.  "  Mr.  Congreve,"  relates  the  great  French 
skeptic,  ''had  one  defect,  which  was  his  entertaining 
too  mean  an  idea  of  his  own  first  profession,  that  of  a 
writer,  though  it  was  to  this  he  owed  his  fame  and  for- 
tune. He  spoke  of  his  works  as  trifles  that  were  be- 
neath him,  and  hinted  to  me  in  our  first  conversation, 
that  I  should  visit  him  upon  no  other  footing  than  that 
of  a  gentleman  who  led  a  life  of  plainness  and  simplic- 
ity. I  answered  that  had  he  been  so  unfortunate  as  to 
be  a  mere  gentleman,  I  should  never  have  come  to  see 
him  ;  and  I  was  very  much  disgusted  at  so  unseasona- 
ble a  piece  of  vanity." 

Voltaire's  disgust  did  not  interfere  with  his  love  of 
Congreve' s  work,  for  he  pays  the  author  of  the  Double 
Dealer  a  remarkable  tribute  in  one  of  his  ' '  lyCtters 
Concerning  the  English  Nation."  He  thinks  that 
"  Mr.  Congreve  raised  the  glory  of  comedy  to  a  greater 
heigh th  than  any  English  writer  before  or  since  his 
time.  He  wrote  only  a  few  plays,  but  they  are  excel- 
lent in  their  kind.  The  laws  of  the  drama  are  strictly 
observed  in  them."  It  is  added  that  all  the  charac- 
ters are  ' '  shadowed  with  the  utmost  delicacy,  and  we 
don't  meet  with  so  much  as  one  low  or  coarse  jest  ^'^  a  curi- 


THE   OLD  REGIME  AND    THE   NEW,  9/ 

ous  criticism  that  is  somewhat  modified  when  we  learn 
that  '  *  the  language  is  everywhere  that  of  men  of  fash- 
ion, but  their  actions  are  those  of  Knaves,  a  proof  that 
he  was  perfectly  well  acquainted  with  human  nature, 
and  frequented  what  we  call  polite  compan}^" 

And  so  we  see  Congreve  cheerfully  but  goutily  going 
down  to  his  grave  as  a  well-to-do  gentleman  might  (not 
as  a  poor  scribe,  be  it  remembered),  beloved  by  his  dis- 
tinguished friends  and  rejoicing  in  the  affections  of  his 
very  particular  ch^re  amie^  Henrietta,  Duchess  of  Marl- 
borough. After  he  died  the  Duchess,  to  whom  the 
great  man  had  bequeathed  the  bulk  of  his  fortune,  put 
a  marble  tablet  near  his  resting-place  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  upon  which  she  set  forth,  for  the  edification  of 
posterit}^  **  the  happiness  and  honor  she  enjoyed  in 
the  sincere  friendship  of  so  worthy  and  honest  a  man, 
whose  virtue,  candor,  and  wit  gained  him  the  love  and 
esteem  of  the  present  age,  and  whose  writings  will  be 
the  admiration  of  the  future."  When  Sarah,  the  old 
Duchess  of  Marlborough,  read  the  inscription  she  re- 
marked with  characteristic  venom  :  "  I  know  not  what 
pleasure  she  might  have  had  in  his  company,  but  I  am 
sure  it  was  no  honor." 

Congreve' s  plays  are  now  as  mouldy  as  that  once 
plump,  handsome  body  of  his  which  lies  in  the  great 
Abbey  ;  the  student  of  the  stage  may  know  them,  but 
the  theatre-goer  will  never  see  them  more.  After  all, 
it  is  only  as  he  may  have  wished  in  those  final  days,  as 
he  approached  the  Great  Beyond  with  a  genteel  air  of 

7 


98  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

patience  and  philosophy  that  so  keenly  stirred  the  ad- 
miration and  sympathy  of  his  associates.  If  in  his 
inner  consciousness  he  felt  that  the  age  was  improving 
he  never  said  so,  for  only  a  short  time  before  his  death 
he  wrote  : 

*/  Come  see  thy  friend,  retired  without  regret, 
Forgetting  care,  or  striving  to  forget, 
In  easy  contemplation  soothing  time. 
With  morals  much,  and  now  and  then  with  rhyme. 
Not  so  robust  in  body  as  in  mind, 
And  always  undejected,  tho'  declined  ; 
Not  wondering  at  the  world's  new  wicked  ways, 
Compared  with  those  of  our  forefathers'  days, 
For  virtue  now  is  neither  more  nor  less, 
And  vice  is  only  varied  in  the  dress. 
Believe  it,  men  have  ever  been  the  same. 
And  Ovid's  Golden  Age  is  but  a  dream."  * 

The  long-since-forgotten  plays  of  early  eighteenth 
century  celebrity  would,  for  the  most  part,  seem  stupid 
enough  and  horridly  archaic  were  they  to  be  revived. 
Yet  many  of  them  delighted  large  audiences  and  in- 
spired the  finest  efforts  of  players  whose  names  will 
never  be  forgotten  while  there  is  interest  in  the  history 
of  the  English  stage.  There  was  The  Provoked  Wife 
by  Sir  John  Vanbrugh,  a  licentious  comedy  in  which 
Betterton  created,  with  great  success,  the  role  of  Sir 
John  Brute^  and  which  was  later  to  be  revived  by  Gar- 
rick  so  that  he  might  delight  his  admirers  in  the  same 
character.  It  was  a  scandalous  piece,  yet  it  had  so 
much  genuine  humor  that  Garrick  ventured  to  add  it 
*  Epistle  of  Improving  the  Present  Time, 


THE   OLD  REGIME  AND    THE  NEW.  99 

to  his  repertoire,  with  some  of  the  original  grossness 
left  out,  but  as  its  heroine,  Lady  Brute,  not  content 
with  being  a  wanton  herself,  actually  connived  at  the 
ruin  of  her  own  niece,  the  oblivion  that  afterward  over- 
took it  is  a  matter  for  congratulation  rather  than 
regret. 

Unlike  the  Provoked  Wife  and  nearly  all  of  its  con- 
temporaries. The  Inconstaiit  has  survived  to  the  present 
day,  and  was  re-produced  only  a  few  seasons  ago  by 
Augustin  Daly,  with  John  Drew  and  Ada  Rehan  in 
the  cast.  Poor  Farquhar,  its  author,  wrote  plays  that 
had  greater  runs  than  the  Inconstajit,  but  they  have 
been  on  the  theatrical  shelf  many  a  long  year.  His 
first  effort  was  suggestively  styled  Love  in  a  Bottle, 
brought  out  when  he  was  but  twenty-one  years  old, 
and  which  was  received  with  such  favor  that  he  soon 
produced  the  Constant  Couple.  Even  in  this  era  of 
lengthy  runs  a  series  of  fifty-three  performances  in  one 
season  is  not  to  be  despised,  while  the  fact  that  this 
was  the  record  of  the  Constant  Couple  in  1 700  was  then 
something  phenomenal,  and  clearly  indicates  the  meas- 
ure of  its  popularity.  His  remarkable  list  included 
the  Recrtiiting  Officer  (wherein  he  depicted  his  own 
image  as  Captain  Plume  and  mirrored  several  of  his 
companions)  and  ended  with  perhaps  the  best  of  all, 
The  Beaux  Stratagem.  The  latter  was  written  under 
peculiar  conditions  that  contrasted  in  a  pathetic  way 
with  the  triumphant  reception  accorded  it.  The  comedy 
was  the  product  of  six  miserable  weeks  of  worry  and 


100  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

poverty,  during  which  Farquhar  lay  dying  of  a  linger- 
ing illness,  wondering  how  the  members  of  his  family 
were  to  be  fed,  and  seeing  no  happier  prospect  before 
them  than  starvation.  These  were  the  circumstances 
under  which  one  of  the  most  felicitous  plays  of  the  last 
century  was  conceived  and  developed,  the  author  even 
then  predicting  that  he  would  not  live  to  see  the  end  of 
its  run. 

From  the  very  first  Farquhar  had  encountered  an  un- 
usually checquered  experience.  When  a  mere  youth 
he  took  to  the  stage,  where  he  chiefly  distinguished 
himself  by  accidentally  w^ounding  a  fellow- performer 
with  his  sword.  He  was  a  man  of  marked  sensitive- 
ness, and  as  a  result  of  this  unpleasant  contretemps  he 
gave  up  any  ambition  to  shine  in  the  profession.  Wilks, 
however,  advised  him  to  write  for  the  boards  which  he 
could  no  longer  adorn  by  his  presence,  *'  and  in  return," 
says  Dibdin,  **  Farquhar  made  his  friend  the  hero  of 
his  pieces,  which,  however,  he  is  said  to  have  drawn  as 
portraits  of  himself,  having  got  a  commission  in  the 
army,  and  being  a  young  man  greatly  esteemed  by  the 
gaj^  world  ;  young,  volatile,  and  w^ild,  but  polished, 
sensible,  and  honorable."  This  "wild"  but  **  sensi- 
ble "  young  fellow  always  had  before  his  eyes  the  awful 
spectre  of  poverty,  and  in  his  frantic  effort  to  vanquish 
it  so  overreached  himself  that  the  phantom  became  a 
reality.  He  solemnly  declared  that  he  must  marry  a 
rich  woman,  and  a  lady  who  happened  to  be  rich  in 
nothing  save  her  love  for  him,  deceived  this  frank  for- 


THE   OLD  REGIME  ANL^  ^^TlfE-NElVr  '    '  l6r 

tune-hunter  into  the  belief  that  she  was  weaUhy  in 
money  as  well  as  affection.  So  Farquhar  wed  her, 
"  without  examining  rent  rolls  or  title  deeds,"  and  was 
much  disappointed  on  finding  that  his  wife's  purse  was 
no  fuller  than  his  own.  He  resigned  his  army  com- 
mission, on  the  supposition  that  an  influential  noble- 
man would  take  care  of  him  ;  this  anticipation,  too,  had 
no  realization,  and  the  dramatist,  with  that  awful  fear 
of  a  pauper's  grave  before  his  eyes,  got  poorer  and 
poorer.  His  wife,  to  whom,  to  do  him  justice,  he  was 
sincerely  attached,  and  his  two  little  children  were  in 
actual  want,  for  his  dramatic  work  brought  but  few 
pounds  into  the  household,  and  the  misery  of  it  all  so 
preyed  on  his  mind  that  he  fell  ill  and  died  before  he 
reached  the  age  of  thirty. 

' *  Dear  Bob, ' '  he  wrote  to  Wilks  just  before  his  death, 
' '  I  have  not  anything  to  leave  thee,  to  perpetuate  my 
memory  but  two  helpless  girls  ;  look  upon  them  some- 
times and  think  of  him  who  was  to  the  last  moment  of 
his  life  thine — G.  Farquhar."  Wilks  did  what  he 
could  for  the  unfortunate  children,  but  their  mother 
soon  died,  and  the  daughters  of  one  of  the  greatest  of 
English  playwrights  were  allowed  by  an  ungrateful 
public  to  eke  out  a  precarious  livelihood. 

A  writer  who  flourished  after  the  manner  of  a  green 
bay  tree  in  Queen  Anne's  reign  was  Nicholas  Rowe, 
over  whose  sentimental  tragedies  it  became  the  fashion 
to  weep  profusely.  One  of  them  that  enjoyed  a  great 
vogue  was  Tamerlane,  in  which  the  characters  of  King 


102  ,    kCHQES     or  THE  FLA  Y HO  USE. 

William  and  Louis  XIV.  were  depicted  under  the  re- 
spective guises  of  Tamerlane  and  Bajazet ;  and  others 
included  the  Fair  Penitent  and  Jane  Shore.  Upon  his 
trying  comedy  he  met  with  dismal  failure,  which  does 
not  seem  to  have  disconcerted  him  much,  for  when  The 
Biter  was  brought  out  in  1705  Rowe  sat  in  the  front  of 
the  house  and  laughed,  while  all  around  him  were  hiss- 
ing and  hooting. 

Of  women  dramatists  there  appears  a  curious  array. 
Aphra  Behn,  who  had  varied  her  discreditable  career 
by  acting  as  a  spy  for  the  English  Government,  was  no 
longer  alive  to  invent  filthy  plays,  but  Mrs.  Centlivre  was 
writing,  and  so  were  Mrs.  Pix,  Mrs.  Manley,  and  Mrs. 
Trotter  (alias  Cockburne).  The  last  three,  as  Dibdin 
contemptuously  observes,  ' '  made  up  a  triumvirate  of 
lady  wits  who  enjoyed  a  great  deal  the  admiration  of  the 
namby-pamby  critics,  and  the  indifference,  and  some- 
times the  ridicule  of  those  whom  heaven  had  vouch- 
safed to  endow  with  taste  and  judgment."  To  dwell 
upon  the  effusions  of  these  aspirants,  or  upon  the  more 
important  work  of  several  of  their  masculine  colleagues, 
would  take  up  two  or  three  chapters,  and  so  we  will 
dismiss  the  plays  of  the  period  by  mentioning  one 
which,  though  no  longer  acted,  is  still  remembered  be- 
cause it  happens  to  be  from  the  polished  pen  of  Addi- 
son. Cato  was  the  name  of  the  tragedy,  and  it  has 
been  aptly  described  as  * '  a  compound  of  transcendant 
beauties  and  absurdities."  It  had  its  day  of  prosperity 
upon  the  stage  ;  indeed,  it  supplied  the  model  for  many 
a  later  example  of  less  scholarly  writers,  and  now  it 


THE   OLD  REGIME  AND   THE   NEW.  IO3 

enjoys  the  somewhat  dubious  honor  of  being  bound  as 
part  of  Addison's  Works — and  frequently  skipped  in  the 
reading  thereof.  Viewed  from  the  present  standpoint 
it  seems  pros}^  and  lacking  in  situation,  but  Mr.  Addi- 
son's contemporaries  thought  otherwise  and  quickly  put 
upon  his  drama  the  mark  of  emphatic  approval. 

Steele,  who  had  dedicated  his  Tender  Husband  to  his 
collaborateur  on  the  Spectator^  addressed  some  ' '  verses 
to  the  Author  of  the  Tragedy  of  Cato, ' '  to  the  effect  that 

**  While  you  the  fierce  divided  Britons  awe, 
And  Cato  with  an  equal  virtue  draw. 
While  envy  is  itself  in  wonder  lost, 
And  factions  strive  who  shall  applaud  you  most ; 
Forgive  the  fond  ambition  of  a  friend, 
Who  hopes  himself,  not  you,  to  recommend. 
And  join  th'  applause  which  all  the  learn'd  bestow 
On  one,  to  whom  a  perfect  work  they  owe. 
To  my  light  scenes  I  once  inscribed  your  name. 
And  impotently  strove  to  borrow  fame  : 
Soon  will  that  die,  which  adds  thy  name  to  mine  ; 
lyct  me,  then,  live,  join'd  to  a  work  of  thine." 

Pope  wrote  a  prologue  for  Cato  and  took  care  to  get 
in  a  good  word  for  home  drama,  as  opposed  to  French 
adaptations  and  the  Italian  opera,  fast  becoming  quite 
the  rage.  He  concludes  by  calling  upon  Britons  to 
approve  the  play,  and  pointed  out  that 

**  With  honest  scorn  the  first-fam'd  Cato  viewed 
Rome  learning  arts  from  Greece,  whom  she  subdued  : 
Our  scene  precariously  subsists  too  long 
On  French  translation  and  Italian  song  : 
Dare  to  have  sense  yourselves  ;  assert  the  stage, 
Be  justly  warni'd  with  your  own  native  rage. 
Such  plays  alone  should  please  a  British  ear, 
As  Cato's  self  had  not  disdained  to  hear." 


I04  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

The  mention  of  these  productions  recalls  the  fact 
that  one  of  the  homes  of  the  drama  at  this  time  was 
the  Theatre  Royal,  Drury  I^ane,  which  was  managed 
by  Christopher  Rich,  a  lawyer,  from  1690  to  17 10,  and 
subsequently  by  Collier,  Wilks,  Dogget,  and  Cibber. 
In  the  year  171 2  Dogget  retired  from  the  partnership, 
and  Barton  Booth  took  his  place,  while  two  years  later 
we  find  Steele  becoming  its  proprietor  by  virtue  of  a 
life-patent  granted  to  him.  Henri  Misson,  the  observ- 
ant French  traveller  who  visited  England  about  the 
end  of  the  seventeenth  century,  naturally  attended  per- 
formances at  Drury  Lane,  and  in  his  memoirs  gives  a 
graphic  idea  of  the  interior  of  the  house.*  "The  pit 
is  an  amphitheatre  fiU'd  with  benches  without  back 
boards,  and  adorn'd  and  cover'd  with  green  cloth. 
Men  of  quality,  particularly  the  younger  sort,  some 
ladies  of  reputation  and  vertue,  and  abundance  of  dam- 
sels that  hunt  for  prey,  sit  all  together  in  this  place, 
higgledy-piggledy,  chatter,  toy,  play,  hear,  hear  not. 
Farther  up,  against  the  wall,  under  the  first  gallery, 
and  just  opposite  to  the  stage,  rises  another  amphi- 
theatre, which  is  taken  up  by  persons  of  the  best  qual- 
ity, among  whom  are  generally  very  few  men.  The 
galleries,  whereof  there  are  only  two  rows,  are  fill'd 
with  none  but  ordinary  people,  particularly  the  upper 
one." 

The  Dorset  Gardens  Theatre,  in  Salisbury  Court, 
originally  occupied  by  the  defunct  Duke  of  York's 
*  These  Memoirs  were  translated  into  English  in  1719. 


THE   OLD   REGIME  AND    THE  NEW.  I05 

Company,  now  seemed  in  a  languishing  condition. 
From  being  a  temple  for  the  muses  of  Tragedy  and 
Comedy  it  gradually  sank  to  the  meanest  uses  until  it 
was  razed  to  the  ground,  in  1709.  The  house  in  I^in- 
coln's  Inn  Fields  had  a  fair  amount  of  prosperity  dur- 
ing its  occupancy  by  Betterton  and  his  company,  who 
had  revolted  from  the  management  of  Rich,  at  Drury 
Lane,  but  for  some  time  previous  to  Anne's  death  it 
remained  untenanted. 

lyondon  had  at  least  one  theatre  too  many,  but  a 
company  was  formed,  notwithstanding,  to  build  a  new 
one  in  the  Haymarket,  where  that  novel  and  popular 
form  of  entertainment,  Italian  opera,  might  be  pre- 
sented. **  Of  this  theatre,"  says  Cibber,  "  I  saw  the 
first  stone  laid,  on  which  was  inscribed  The  Little 
Whig^  in  honor  to  a  lady  of  extraordinary  beauty,* 
then  the  celebrated  toast  and  pride  of  that  party." 
The  house  was  opened  with  a  great  flourish  of  trum- 
pets on  an  Easter  Monday,  1705,  with  a  performance 
of  The  Triumph  of  Love,  otherwise  "  a  translated  opera, 
to  Italian  musick."  Sir  John  Vanbrugh  and  Con- 
greve,  who  directed  the  enterprise,  hardly  met  with 
the  expected  success,  although  they  were  joined  by 
Betterton  and  his  associates,  who  came  over  from  I^in- 
coln's  Inn  Fields.  But  as  Cibber  has  pointed  out,  the 
company  was  no  longer  what  it  had  been.  "  Several 
of  them,  excellent  in  their  different  talents,  were  now 
dead,  as  Smith,  Kynaston,  Sandford,  and  I^eigh,  Mrs. 
*  Lady  Sunderland,  a  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough, 


I06  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

Bettertoti  and  Underbill  being,  at  tbis  time,  superannu- 
ated pensioners,  wbose  places  were  generally  but  ill  sup- 
plied. Nor  could  it  be  expected  tbat  Betterton  himself, 
at  past  seventy,  could  retain  his  former  force  and  spirit, 
though  he  was  yet  far  distant  from  any  competitor. 
Thus,  then,  were  these  remains  of  the  best  set  of  actors 
that  I  believe  were  ever  known,  at  once  in  England,  by 
time,  death,  and  the  satiety  of  their  hearers,  mould- 
' ring  to  decay," 

Like  equally  sanguine  managers  of  later  years  Con- 
greve  and  Sir  John  gave  up  their  new  venture  as  soon 
as  they  conveniently  could,  and  one  Owen  Swinej^  en- 
gaged to  watch  over  the  destinies  of  the  theatre  whose 

"  Majestic  columns  stand  where  dung  hills  lay, 
And  cars  triumphal  rise  from  carts  of  hay." 


GENTLEMAN    SMITH, 

AS  ' '  PLUME  "IN  "  THE  RECRUITING  OFFICER. "      FROM  A  DRAWING  BY  ISAAC  TAYLOR. 


:;^;;:i^'v;i:  ;  A    ; 


:  f   ..     c  :   c  ,  c 


CHAPTER  VI. 


ONE  of  the  most  interesting  figures  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century  stage,  a  man  whose  career  makes 
a  bridge  between  the  halcyon  days  of  Betterton,  Kynas- 
ton,  and  Barry  and  those  of  the  incomparable  Garrick 
(whom  he  contemptuously  called  *'  the  prettiest  little 
creature")  now  claims  attention.  This  is  none  other 
than  Colley  Gibber,  whose  want  of  genius  was  atoned 
for  by  an  "  infinite  variety  ' '  which  enabled  him  to  be- 
come actor,  manager,  dramatist,  man  about  town  and, 
by  some  inscrutable  dispensation  of  Providence  and 
royal  favor,  Poet  Laureate  of  the  English  nation.  As 
an  actor  he  was  a  success  in  characters  of  the  light 
foppish  variety,  yet  he  convulsed  his  friends,  in  a  way 
not  intended,  by  his  penchant  for  tragedy  ;  as  a  mana- 
ger, he  showed  great  administrative  capacity,  while  he 
could  be  overbearing  and  unpleasant ;  as  a  dramatist 
he  wrote  some  popular,  sprightly  comedies,  and  as  a 
poet  he  seems  to  have  been  **  one  of  the  worst  on  rec- 
ord.' '  *  *  Colley  Cibber,  Sir, ' '  pompously  said  Dr.  John- 
son to  the  admiring  Boswell,  "was  by  no  means  a 
blockhead  ;  but  by  arrogating  to  himself  too  much,  he 

107 


I08  ECHOES  OF   THE   PLA  Y HO  USE. 

was  in  danger  of  losing  that  degree  of  estimation  to 
which  he  was  entitled." 

The  weighty  Doctor,  with  all  his  prejudices  and  ar- 
rogance, had  an  elephantine  way  of  hitting  the  bull's 
eye  of  truth  about  men  and  things,  and  he  never  gauged 
a  nature  better  than  he  did  in  this  instance.  When, 
however,  he  called  Cibber  a  "  Poor  creature,"  he  shot 
wide  of  the  mark,  for  while  the"  volatile  CoUey  had  a 
thousand  faults  he  accomplished  too  much  to  deserve 
so  mean  a  description.  Yet  it  wouldhave  been  expect- 
ing the  impossible  to  ask  that  the  man  who  insolently 
referred  to  Garrick,  even  before  his  face,  as  *'  Punch," 
and  who  looked  upon  players  as  little  more  or  less  than 
disreputable  puppets,  should  find  any  great  compliment 
for  a  butterfly  like  the  Laureate.  Butterflies  have  their 
uses,  the  one  in  this  case  writing  an  autobiography  that 
is  now  a  theatrical  classic,  but  Johnson  could  find  no 
health  in  them,  particularly  if  their  wings  were  singed 
by  the  footlights. 

Whatever  was  artistic  in  the  temperament  of  this  au- 
thor-actor must  have  been  inherited  from  his  father, 
Caius  Gabriel  Cibber,  a  native  of  Holstein  who  emi- 
grated to  England  prior  to  the  Restoration  and  after- 
wards acquired  considerable  fame  as  a  sculptor.  His 
figures  are  now  forgotten,  but  the  dandified  form  of  his 
son  seems  a  reality  even  yet ;  we  can  picture  him  flit- 
ting about  among  the  coxcombs  of  his  time  ;  then  rush- 
ing to  the  theatre  to  play  some  character  dear  to  his 
heart,  or  hurrying  home  to  compose  a  wretched  ode 


CIBBER  AND  HIS  ''APOLOGY:*  lOQ 

over  which  his  friends  were  to  laugh,  and  perhaps  have 
for  a  sharer  in  their  merriment  the  complaisant  CoUey 
himself. 

In  1682,  when  httle  more  than  ten  years  old,  the 
young  Gibber  was  sent  to  a  school  in  Lincolnshire, 
where  his  life  seems  to  have  been  neither  more  brilliant 
nor  less  lazy  than  that  of  the  average  boy.  **  Even 
there,"  he  remembers,  "I  was  the  same  inconsistent 
creature  I  have  been  ever  since  !  always  in  full  spirits, 
in  some  small  capacity  to  do  right,  but  in  a  more  fre- 
quent alacrity  to  do  wrong  ;  and  consequently  often 
under  a  worse  character  than  I  wholly  deserved."  He 
writes  an  ode,  later  on,  and  gets  the  ill-will  of  his  fel- 
low-students for  his  pains,  not  so  much  because  the 
poetry  was  bad,  (although  to  judge  by  his  subsequent 
efforts  in  this  direction  it  must  have  been  a  curiosity,) 
as  on  account,  very  possibly,  of  his  characteristic  van- 
ity at  having  perpetrated  it. 

Next  the  father  tries  to  get  his  son  admitted  to  Win- 
chester College,  but  the  fact  that  the  lad  is  descended, 
on  his  mother's  side,  from  the  founder  of  the  institu- 
tion, William  of  Wickham,  is  not  sufficient  for  the  pur- 
pose, and  so  we  shortly  find  Colley  taking  up  arms  in 
the  interests  of  William  of  Orange,  among  the  troops 
collected  by  his  father's  patron,  the  Karl  of  Devonshire, 
to  accomplish  the  ruin  of  the  obstinate  James  II.  The 
peaceful  establishment  of  King  William  on  the  English 
throne  put  a  stop  to  any  budding  desire  on  the  youth's 
part  to  become  a  great  warrior,  and  now  his  tastes  be- 


no  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

gin  to  incline  toward  the  stage.  He  goes  up  to  Lon- 
don, ostensibly  to  await  an  appointment  in  the  Secretary 
of  State's  office,  but  the  delay  in  the  arrival  of  the 
preferment  is  as  balm  to  his  soul,  or,  to  use  his  own 
quaint  explanation  :  "  The  distant  hope  of  a  reversion 
was  too  cold  a  temptation  for  a  spirit  impatient  as  mine, 
that  wanted  immediate  possession  of  what  my  heart 
was  so  differently  set  upon.  The  allurements  of  a 
theatre  are  still  so_strong  in  my  memory  that  perhaps 
few,  except  those  who  have  felt  them,  can  conceive  : 
And  I  am  yet  so  far  willing  to  excuse  my  folly  that  I 
am  convinc'd,  were  it  possible  to  take  off  that  disgrace 
and  prejudice  which  custom  has  thrown  upon  the  pro- 
fession of  an  actor,  many  a  well-born  younger  brother 
and  beauty  of  low  fortune  would  gladly  have  adorn 'd 
the  theatre,  who  by  their  not  being  able  to  brook  such 
dishonor  to  their  birth,  have  pass'd  away  their  lives 
decently  unheeded  and  forgotten." 

All  thoughts  of  settling  down  to  a  Government  clerk- 
ship were  finally  thrown  to  the  winds,  and  in  1690  the 
aspiring  young  fellow  became  an  humble  actor,  strictly 
on  probation,  in  the  united  company  formed  by  Better- 
ton,  Mountford,  Kynaston,  Barry,  Bracegirdle,  and  their 
associates.  He  was  to  receive  no  pay  until  that  fortu- 
nate incident,  already  narrated,  should  bring  him  to  the 
attention  of  Betterton,  but  he  looked  upon  the  privilege 
of  witnessing  gratis  all  the  performances  at  the  theatre 
as  a  sufficient  rew^ard  for  his  modest  services.  Before 
the  first  year's  stay  had  ended  Colley  was  receiving  the 


CIBBER  AND  HIS  ''APOLOGY:'  III 

princely  salary  of  ten  shillings  a  week,  and  he  considered 
himself  the  happiest  of  mortals. 

To  be  sure,  he  burned  with  an  ardent  ambition  to 
play  the  lovers  to  the  heroines  of  the  chaste  Bracegir- 
dle,  but  he  was  soon  snubbed  out  of  any  such  wild 
hopes.  An  inexperienced,  unattractive  looking  actor 
with  an  insufficient  voice,  a  *'  meagre  person  (tho'  then 
not  ill  made)  with  a  dismal  pale  complexion  "  was  not 
a  fit  companion  for  one  of  the  most  charming  of  her 
sex.  But  there  was  no  such  word  as  discouragement 
in  the  egotistical  lexicon  of  this  curious  "poor  crea- 
ture. ' '  Soon  he  is  playing  the  Chaplain  in  The  Orphan 
of  Otway,  and  winning  the  honest  praise  of  Goodman, 
now  retired  from  the  stage,  who  says  with  more  vigor 
than  elegance,  "  If  he  does  not  make  a  good  actor  I  '11 

be  d d."     Then  he  gets  married,  on  twenty  pounds 

a  year  from  his  father  and  twenty  shillings  a  week  from 
the  theatre  ;  looks  upon  his  wife  and  himself  as  *'  the 
happiest  young  couple  that  ever  took  a  leap  in  the 
dark,"  and  completes  this  vision  of  bliss  by  wooing  the 
poetic  muse  after  that  unblushingly  absurd  way  of 
his. 

Once  the  illness  of  a  superior  serves  him  a  good  turn. 
The  Double  Dealer  is  to  be  played  before  Queen  Mary, 
and  Mr.  Congreve,  its  author,  finding  that  Kynaston  is 
too  sick  to  take  the  part  of  Lord  Touchwood,  and  much 
disturbed  by  the  discovery,  at  last  asks  Cibber  to  try  the 
character.  The  substitute  is  delighted,  he  plays  with 
confidence  and  success,  her  Most  Gracious  Majesty  is 


112  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

present  and  listens  to  the  dulcet  voice  of  Mrs.  Barry- 
reciting  a  prologue  proclaiming  that 

*'  .     .     .     never  were  in  Rome  nor  Athens  seen, 
So  fair  a  Circle,  or  so  bright  a  Queen," 

and  after  the  performance  the  grateful  Congreve  thanks 
Gibber  warmly  for  his  impersonation  and  induces  the 
management  to  increase  the  new  Touchwood's  wages  by 
five  shillings.  This,  Gibber  very  frankly  admits,  only 
served  to  heighten  his  own  vanity,  but  could  not  recom- 
mend him  to  any  new  trials  of  his  capacity.  "  Not  a 
step  farther  could  I  get,  'till  the  company  was  again 
divided  ;  when  the  desertion  of  the  best  actors  left  a 
clear  stage,  for  younger  champions  to  mount,  and  show 
their  best  pretensions  to  favor. ' ' 

The  rupture  to  which  Gibber  alludes  occurred  in 
1695,  when  Rich,  the  manager  of  Drury  lyane,  attempted 
to  reduce  the  salary  of  his  players,  and  ordered  several 
of  Betterton  and  Mrs.  Barry's  favorite  parts  to  be  given 
to  Powell  and  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  respectively.  The  se- 
cession of  Betterton  and  his  sympathizers  left  the  old 
company  in  a  much  weakened  condition,  and  Mr.  Rich 
was  glad  to  keep  Golley  at  the  Theatre  Royal  at  a  sal- 
ary now  fixed  at  thirty  shillings  a  week.  In  the  mean- 
while, the  new  theatre  of  the  deserters,  in  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields,  opens  with  a  great  flourish  ;  the  town  crowds 
to  see  Betterton,  as  of  old,  but  neglects  Drury  Lane,  as 
well  it  might,  and  Gibber  mourns  at  the  decadence  of 
the  once  favorite  house.     It  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows 


CTBBER  AND  HIS  ''APOLOGY^  II3 

him  good,  however,  even  though  he  feels  like  shutting 
his  eyes  when  his  colleagues  slaughter  Shakespeare  or 
otherwise  provoke  uncomplimentary  comparisons  with 
the  work  of  their  rivals. 

On  a  certain  Saturday  morning  the  players  at  the 
old  house  got  information  that  Hamlet  was  to  be  re- 
vived at  lyincoln's  Inn  Fields  on  the  following  Tuesday, 
for  the  first  time  at  the  new  establishment.  In  order 
to  steal  a  march  upon  the  enemy  it  was  determined  to 
present  Hamlet  at  Drury  lyane  on  Monday,  one  day 
ahead  of  the  other  people,  and  this  piece  of  enterprise 
was  received  with  unnecessary  consternation  by  the 
latter,  considering  that  they  had  among  them  the 
greatest  Hamlet  of  the  age.  As  Gibber  very  shrewdly 
observes,  they  paid  too  much  regard  to  the  matter, 
**for  they  shortened  their  first  orders,  and  resolv'd 
that  Hamlet  should  to  Hamlet  be  opposed,  on  the  same 
day ;  whereas  had  they  given  notice  in  their  bills, 
that  the  same  play  would  have  been  acted  by  them  the 
day  after,  the  town  would  have  been  in  no  doubt,  which 
house  they  should  have  reserved  themselves  for  ;  ours 
must  certainly  have  been  empty  and  theirs,  with  more 
honor,  been  crowded."  But  managers,  ancient  or 
modern,  with  all  their  nerve,  find  it  hard  to  play  this 
sort  of  an  "  off  "-game  ;  and  so  Hamlet  was  irrevocably 
fixed  upon  for  Monday,  at  the  new  house.  The  an- 
nouncement fell  like  a  bomb  into  the  camp  of  the  Rich 
forces  and  in  this  predicament  Powell,  who  was  vain 
enough  to  look  upon  himself  as  the  rival,   even  the 

8 


114  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

equal,  of  Betterton,  suggested  that  the  company  should 
drop  Shakespeare  for  Monday,  and  replace  him  with 
the  Old  Batchelor.  With  magnificent  audacity  he 
promised  to  play  the  title  part,  one  of  Betterton' s  fa- 
mous characters,  and  to  mimic  the  veteran  therein. 
This  scheme  meeting  with  great  approval — '*  as  what- 
ever can  be  supposed  to  ridicule  merit,  generally  gives 
joy  to  those  that  want  it  " — the  bills  were  changed, 
and  it  was  given  out  that  the  part  of  the  Old  Batchelor 
would  be  performed  "in  Imitation  of  the  Original." 

Powell  and  his  companions  were  so  busy  in  thinking 
about  their  individual  impersonations  that  it  was  not 
until  the  last  moment  that  they  rectified  a  strange  over- 
sight. The  part  of  Alderman  Fondlewife  in  which  the 
natural  Dogget  (who  had  gone  over  to  the  enemy  at 
lyincoln's  Inn  Fields  and  who  was  later  to  be  associa- 
ted with  Gibber  as  manager)  formerly  created  so  de- 
lightful an  impression,  was  unassigned,  and  nobody 
had  courage  enough  to  invite  odious  comparisons  by 
playing  it.  Nobody  ?  No,  that  were  too  sweeping  a 
term,  when  Gibber  was  in  the  company,  and  so  he  gladly 
volunteered  to  take  up  what  no  one  else  dared  to 
touch.  *'If  the  fool  has  a  mind  to  blow  himself  up, 
at  once,"  politely  exclaimed  Powell,  "let  us  ev'n  give 
him  a  clear  stage  for  it." 

The  young  man  was  given  a  clear  stage,  in  a  way 
that  was  hardly  intended,  for  to  judge  from  his  own 
narrative  he  proved  quite  as  strong  an  attraction  as 
the  over-bearing  Powell,  whose  mimicking  of  Better- 


CIBBER  AND  HIS  ''APOLOGY:'  11$ 

ton  possessed  cftily  a  passing  interest  and  diminished 
rather  than  increased  the  artistic  reputation  of  the 
imitator.  CoUey  had  but  a  few  hours  in  which  to 
study  the  part,  but  as  he  had  often  witnessed  Dogget's 
performance  of  it,  possibly  with  the  view  of  trying  it 
himself  at  some  future  date,  he  had  no  trouble  in  com- 
mitting the  lines  to  memory.  This  was  but  half  the 
battle,  however,  and  it  is  clear  that  the  youthful  aspir- 
ant, who  knew  full  well  that  the  audience  would  care 
nothing  for  an  original  interpretation  of  his  own,  diplo- 
matically determined  to  closely  imitate  the  redoubtable 
Dogget.  But  let  us  tell  the  result  in  his  own  words, 
wherein  seeming  modesty  and  natural  vanity  find  such 
funny  combination. 

*'  At  my  first  appearance,  one  might  have  imagined, 
by  the  various  murmurs  of  the  audience,  that  they 
were  in  doubt  whether  Dogget  himself  were  not  re- 
turn'd,  or  that  they  could  not  conceive  what  strange 
face  it  could  be,  that  so  nearly  resembled  him  ;  for  I 
had  laid  the  tint  of  forty  years,  more  than  my  real  age, 
upon  my  features,  and,  to  the  most  minute  placing  of 
an  hair,  was  dressed  exactly  like  him.  When  I  spoke, 
the  surprise  was  still  greater,  as  if  I  had  not  only  bor- 
rowed his  cloaths,  but,  his  voice  too.  But  tho'  that 
was  the  least  difficult  part  of  him,  to  be  imitated,  they 
seem'd  to  allow  I  had  so  much  of  him,  in  every  other 
requisite,  that  my  applause  was,  perhaps,  more  than 
proportionable  :  for,  whether  I  had  done  so  much, 
where  so  little  was  expected,  or  that  the  generosity  of 


Il6  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

my  hearers  were  morie  than  usually  zealous,  upon  so 
unexpected  an  occasion  or  from  whatever  motive,  such 
favor  might  be  pour'd  upon  me  I  cannot  say  ;  but,  in 
plain  and  honest  truth,  upon  my  going  off  from  the 
first  scene,  a  much  better  actor  might  have  been  proud 
of  the  applause  that  followed  me  ;  after  one  loud  plaudit 
was  ended,  and  sunk  into  a  general  whisper,  that 
seem'd  still  to  continue  their  private  approbation,  it 
reviv'd  to  a  second,  and  again  to  a  third,  still  louder 
than  the  former.  If,  to  all  this,  I  add  that  Dogget 
himself  was  in  the  pit,  at  the  same  time,  it  would  be 
too  rank  affectation,  if  I  should  not  confess,  that,  to  see 
him  there  a  witness  to  my  reception,  was,  to  me,  as 
consummate  a  triumph  as  the  heart  of  vanity  could  be 
indulg'd  with.  But  whatever  vanity  I  might  set  upon 
myself,  from  this  unexpected  success,  I  found  that  was 
no  rule  to  other  people's  judgment  of  me.  There 
were  few  or  no  parts,  of  the  same  kind,  to  be  had  ;  nor 
could  they  conceive  from  what  I  had  done  in  this,  what 
other  sort  of  character  I  could  be  fit  for.  If  I  solicited 
for  anything  of  a  different  nature,  I  was  answered, 
that  was  not  in  my  way.  And  what  was  in  my  way,  it 
seems,  was  not,  as  yet,  resolv'd  upon.  And  though  I 
reply' d,  that  I  thought  anything,  naturally  written,  ought 
to  be  in  everyone' s  way  that  pretended  to  be  an  actor,  this 
was  looked  upon  as  a  vain,  impracticable  conceit  of  my 
own.  Yet  it  is  a  conceit,  that,  in  forty  years  farther 
experience,  I  have  not  yet  given  up  ;  I  still  think  that 
a  painter  who  can  draw  but  one  sort  of  objects,  or  an 


CIBBEK  AND  HIS  ''APOLOGY,"  \\J 

actor  that  shines  but  in  one  light,  can  neither  of  them 
boast  of  that  ample  genius  \yhich  is  necessary  to  form 
a  thorough  mastery  of  his  art. ' ' 

These  were  wise  sentiments,  but  the  new  Fondlewife 
could  not  get  his  superiors  at  the  theatre  to  believe 
either  in  them  or  in  him.  Nothing  daimted,  he  turned 
playwright,  wrote  Love's  Last  Shift,  which  was  acted 
with  success  in  1695,  and  essayed  the  part  of  Sir  Nov- 
elty, a  fop  of  the  type  then  fashionable.  Southern,  the 
author  of  the  once  popular  drama  of  Oroonoko,  was 
pleased  to  commend  Gibber's  work,  but,  with  the  com- 
mon distrust  as  to  his  powers  as  an  actor,  took  the  pre- 
caution to  say  to  him  :  "  Young  man,  I  pronounce  thy 
play  a  good  one  ;  I  will  answer  for  its  success,  if  thou 
does  not  spoil  it  by  thy  own  action." 

But  the  complaisant  Colley  records  that  he  made 
such  a  good  impression,  both  as  actor  and  author  "  that 
the  people  seem'd  at  a  loss  which  they  should  give  the 
preference  to."  Some  good-natured  persons  were  kind 
enough  to  hint  that  he  had  never  written  the  comedy, 
and  Mr.  Congreve,  than  whom  there  was  no  greater 
authority  on  such  matters,  said  that  it  contained  many 
things  that  were  like  wit,  but,  **in  reality  were  not 
wit "  *  ;  while  on  the  other  hand,  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain sagely  gave  out  that  it  was  the  best  first  play  that 
any  author  in  his  memory  had  produced.  And  so, 
between  praise  and  censure,  Cibber  was  getting  himself 

*  Curiously  enough,  this  criticism  has  been  applied  to  Oscar 
Wilde's  bright  but  frothy  comedies. 


Il8  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

talked  about ;  whereat  his  heart  must  have  waxed  ex- 
ceeding joyful,  even  though  his  fellow  actors  still 
elbowed  him  out  of  ''fat"  parts.  When  Sir  John 
Vanbrugh  actually  composed  a  play  *  as  a  sequel  to 
Love 's  Last  Shift,  and  cast  Colley  for  the  leading  char- 
acter, Baron  Popping  tori,  a  sort  of  ennobled  successor 
to  the  gay  Sir  Novelty,  the  actor  '*  began,  with  others, 
to  have  a  better  opinion  of  himself." 

Gibber  was  now  developing  into  an  experienced  play- 
wright, a  profession  wherein  he  was  to  meet  with 
several  dismal  failures  and  as  many  brilliant  successes. 
He  was  not  always  paid  his  salary  of  thirty  shillings  a 
week,  and  he  says  apologetically,  "I  think  I  may  very 
well  be  excused  in  my  presuming  to  write  plays,  which 
I  was  forced  to  do,  for  the  support  of  my  increasing 
family,  my  precarious  income  as  an  actor  being  then 
too  scant  to  supply  it  with  even  the  necessaries  of  life. 
It  may  be  observable  too,  that  my  muse  and  my  spouse 
were  equally  prolific ;  that  the  one  was  seldom  the 
mother  of  a  child  but  in  the  same  year  the  other  made 
me  the  father  of  a  play."  One  of  the  dramatic  chil- 
dren of  this  father  has  come  down  to  us  in  his  still  used 
adaptation  of  Richard  LIL. 

These  were  trying  days  for  the  buoyant  Colley,  but 
like  a  cork,  every  time  he  was  shoved  under  water,  he 
came  bobbing  up  only  the  more  serenely  ;  when  greater 
men  sank,  never  to  rise  again,  he  kept  swimming  on, 
for  with  all  his  frivolity  and  aping  of  the  fashionable, 
*The  Relapse. 


GIBBER  AND  HIS  ''APOLOGY."  II9 

he  had  before  him  continually  one  inspiring  idea.  He 
must  succeed  ;  whether  as  dramatist,  comedian,  or  poet, 
he  perhaps  cared  not,  but  the  name  of  Gibber  was  to 
be  famous,  if  its  bearer  could  exert  any  influence  on 
the  public  mind.  Everything  conspired,  apparently, 
to  crush  the  young  man  ;  he  was  ridiculed,  gossiped 
about,  and  maligned,  and  his  very  energy  at  the  thea- 
tre only  set  the  actors  against  him.  Of  his  manager, 
Rich,  he  had  no  very  exalted  idea.  "  Our  good  mas- 
ter," he  dryly  says,  "  was  as  sly  a  tyrant  as  ever  was 
at  the  head  of  a  theatre ;  for  he  gave  the  actors  more 
liberty,  and  fewer  days'  pay  than  any  of  his  predeces- 
sors. He  would  laugh  with  them  over  a  bottle,  and 
bite  them,  in  their  bargains.  He  kept  them  poor  that 
they  might  not  be  able  to  rebel ;  and  sometimes  merry 
that  they  might  not  think  of  it."  If  the  author  of  the 
Apology  is  to  be  relied  upon,  Mr.  Rich  had  at  least  one 
quality  very  suggestive  of  certain  modern  managers 
who  are  nothing  more  or  less  than  shrewd  business 
men.  He  "had  no  conception  himself  of  theatrical 
merit,  either  in  authors  or  actors,  [it  is  evident  that  he 
had  snubbed  Colley  in  both  capacities,]  yet  his  judg- 
ment was  governed  by  a  saving  rule  in  both  :  he 
look'd  into  his  receipts  for  the  value  of  a  play,  and 
from  common  fame  he  judg'd  of  his  actors."  A  con- 
vincing proof,  if  one  were  needed,  that  the  manager 
who  looks  at  theatrical  art  from  a  purely  commercial 
basis  is  not  of  recent  growth. 

Until  philanthropists   with  well-lined   pocket-books 


I20  ECHOES  OF  THE   PLAYHOUSE, 

undertake  the  conduct  of  a  theatre  no  one  can  wonder 
at  the  eye  to  windward  which  the  less  wealthy  lessee 
keeps  on  his  exchequer,  and  it  is  agreeable  to  know 
that  while  he  may  resemble  the  prudent  Rich  in  this 
respect  he  does  not,  as  a  rule,  imitate  the  latter  in 
cheating  the  players  out  of  their  hard-earned  wages. 

As  Gibber  struggles  cheerfully  on,  the  Theatre  Royal 
Company  steadily  gains  ground,  and  begins  to  take 
precedence  over  the  rival  organization.  "  Better  ton's 
people  (however  good  in  their  kind)  were  most  of  them 
too  far  advanc'd  in  years  to  mend  ;  and  tho'  we,  in 
Drury  Lane,  were  too  young  to  be  excellent,  we  were 
not  too  old  to  be  better.  But  what  will  not  satiety  de- 
preciate. For  though  I  must  own,  and  avow,  that  in 
our  highest  prosperity,  I  always  thought  we  were 
greatly  their  inferiors,  yet  by  our  good  fortune  of  being 
seen  in  quite  new  lights,  \vhich  several  new- written 
plays  had  shewn  us  in,  we  now  began  to  make  a  con- 
siderable stand  against  them."  Who  can  doubt  it, 
when  in  addition  to  Wilks  and  other  favorites  the 
charming  Mistress  Anne  Oldfield,  of  whom  anon,  was 
now  a  member  of  the  Drury  Lane  forces. 

As  time  goes  on,  the  new  Queen's  Theatre  in  the 
Hay  market  is  erected  and  opened,  and  the  forces  from 
Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  take  up  their  quarters  there  ; 
then  Owen  Swiney  becomes  Sir  John  Vanbrugh's  suc- 
cessor in  the  management  by  promising  to  pay  five 
pounds  rental  for  "every  acting  day."  Swiney  was  a 
great  friend  of  his  presumable  rival,   Mr.  Rich,  and 


CIBBER  AND  HIS  ''APOLOGY."  121 

there  seems  at  first  to  have  been  a  secret  understand- 
ing between  them  by  which  the  two  houses  were  to  be 
run  under  the  same  interest.  Be  that  as  it  may,  Wilks, 
Estcourt,  Mrs.  Oldfield,  and  other  players  soon  deserted 
Drury  Lane,  to  act  at  the  new  house,  and  before  long, 
after  a  disagreement  between  Rich  and  Swiney  that 
must  have  delighted  Cibber,  since  he  was  the  cause  of 
it,  the  latter  joined  the  seceders. 

His  triumph  was  fast  approaching.  The  players  at 
the  Haymarket  appear  with  varying  success  ;  the  pat- 
entee of  Drury  Lane  tries  his  luck  with  singers  and 
dancers  ;  then  his  house  is  closed,  and  finally,  some- 
time after  it  had  been  reopened  with  William  Collier, 
M.  P.,  as  manager,  we  find  the  players  reunited  at  the 
Theatre  Royal,  and  Messrs.  Collier,  Cibber,  Wilks, 
and  Dogget  in  command.  The  three  last-named  actors 
were  the  real  managers  and  formed  the  celebrated 
**  triumvirate,"  under  which  the  theatre  enjoyed  such 
unusual  prosperity. 

Dogget,  "  who  was  naturally  an  ceconomist,"  writes 
Cibber,  ' '  kept  our  expenses  and  account  to  the  best  of 
his  power,  within  regulated  bounds  and  moderation. 
Wilks,  w^ho  had  a  stronger  passion  for  glory  than 
lucre,  was  a  little  apt  to  be  lavish,  in  what  was  not 
always  as  necessary  for  the  profit  as  the  honor  of  the 
theatre.  For  example,  at  the  beginning  of  almost 
every  season,  he  would  order  two  or  three  suits  to  be 
made,  or  refresh'd,  for  actors  of  moderate  consequence, 
that  his  having  constantly  a  new  one  for  himself  might 


122  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLA  Y HO  USE. 

Seem  less  particular,  tho'  he  had,  as  yet,  no  new  part 
for  it.  This  expeditious  care  of  doing  us  good,  with- 
out waiting  for  our  consent  to  it,  Dogget  always  looked 
upon  with  the  eye  of  a  man  in  pain.  But  I,  who  hated 
pain  (tho'  I  as  little  liked  the  favor  as  Dogget  him- 
self), rather  chose  to  laugh  at  the  circumstance,  than 
complain  of  what  I  knew  was  not  to  be  cured  but  by 
a  remedy  worse  than  the  evil.  Upon  these  occasions, 
therefore,  whenever  I  saw  him  and  his  followers  so 
prettily  dress' d  out  for  an  old  play,  I  only  commended 
his  fancy  ;  or  at  most  but  whisper' d  him  not  to  give 
himself  so  much  trouble  about  others,  upon  whose 
performance  it  would  be  thrown  away  ;  to  which,  with 
a  smiling  air  of  triumph  over  my  want  of  penetration, 
he  has  replied  :  '  Why,  now,  that  was  what  I  really  did 
it  for  !  to  shew  others  that  I  love  to  take  care  of  them, 
as  well  as  of  myself.'  " 

Gibber  confesses  that  of  the  two  fellow- managers  he 
was  rather  inclined  to  Dogget' s  way  of  thinking,  but 
he  was  too  tactful  to  let  Wilks  know  this,  and  reading 
between  the  lines  of  his  autobiography  we  can  ^easily 
see  how  often  his  worldly-wise  suggestions  and  conces- 
sions must  have  warded  off  conflicts  between  the  lessee 
of  artistic  taste  and  the  one  who  had  a  more  prosaic 
and  business-like  view  of  his  profession.  While  Wilks 
kept  dreaming  of  gorgeous  costumes  and  accessories, 
Dogget  was  seeing  to  the  payment  of  bills  and  putting 
the  house  on  a  financial  basis  unheard  of  in  those 
days  when  the  very  name  of  actor  conjured  up  a  disor- 


CIBBER  AND  HIS  ''APOLOGY."  I  23 

dered  vision  of  unsatisfied  accounts,  impecuniosity 
and  bailiffs. 

*  *  In  the  twenty  years  while  we  were  our  own  direc- 
tors," Gibber  goes  on  to  say,  with  pardonable  compla- 
cency, "  we  never  had  a  creditor  that  had  occasion  to 
come  twice  for  his  bill ;  every  Monday  morning  dis- 
charged us  of  all  demands,  before  we  took  a  vShilling 
for  our  own  use.  And  from  this  time,  we  neither 
asked  any  actor,  nor  were  desired  by  them,  to  sign  any 
written  agreement  (to  the  best  of  my  memory)  whatso- 
ever. The  rate  of  their  respective  salaries  were  only 
enter' d  in  our  daily  pay-roll ;  which  plain  record  every 
one  look'd  upon  as  good  as  City-Security." 

The  early  history  of  the  Triumvirate  must  have  been 
a  sort  of  honeymoon,  when  everybody  was  in  good 
humor.  The  managers  settled  their  weekly  acounts 
with  a  satisfaction  not  always  to  be  derived  from  such 
a  process,  the  actors  congratulated  themselves  on  the 
novel  sensation  of  being  well-paid  and  well-fed,  and 
the  audience  found  nearly  everything  that  the  latter 
did  a  source  of  delight.  But  life  in  a  theatre  is  much 
as  it  is  on  the  large  stage  of  the  world,  and  there  were 
clouds  as  well  as  sunshine.  Sometimes  the  clouds  were 
formed  by  the  most  petty  causes,  as  in  the  storm 
stirred  up  by  the  arrival  of  two  performers  from  Ire- 
land. They  were  two  un-celebrated  actors  from  the 
Dublin  Theatre,  and  as  Wilks  had  been  so  kindly 
received  on  his  visit  to  the  Emerald  Isle  he  determined 
to  do  what  he  could,   in  turn,  for  the  indigent  new- 


124  ECHOES  OF   THE   PLAYHOUSE. 

comers.  He  introduced  them  to  the  stage  of  Drury 
I^ane,  and  by  the  way  in  which  he  took  them  under  his 
theatrical  mantle  gave  great  offence  to  the  exacting 
Dogget. 

' '  While  Wilks  was  only  animated  by  a  grateful  hos- 
pitality to  his  friends,  Dogget  was  ruffl'd  in  a  storm, 
and  looked  upon  this  generosity  as  so  much  insult  and 
injustice  upon  himself,  and  the  fraternity.  During 
this  disorder  I  stood  by,  a  seeming  quiet  passenger, 
and,  since  talking  to  the  winds,  I  knew,  could  be  to  no 
great  purpose  (whatever  weakness  it  might  be  call'd) 
could  not  help  smiling  to  observe  with  what  officious 
ease  and  delight  Wilks  was  treating  his  friends  at  our 
expense  who  were  scarce  acquainted  with  them.  For 
it  seems,  all  this  was  to  end  in  their  having  a  bene- 
fit-play, in  the  height  of  the  season,  for  the  unprofit- 
able service  they  had  done  us,  without  our  consent, 
or  desire  to  employ  them.  Upon  this  Dogget  bouuc'd 
and  grew  almost  as  untractable  as  Wilks  himself. 

"  Here,  again,  I  was  forc'd  to  clap  my  patience  to 
the  helm,  to  weather  this  difficult  point  between  them. 
Applying  myself  therefore  to  the  person  I  imagin'd 
was  most  likely  to  hear  me,  I  desired  Dogget  to  con- 
sider, that  I  must  naturally  be  as  much  hurt  by  this 
vain  and  over-bearing  behaviour  in  Wilks  as  he  could 
be,  and  that  tho'  it  was  true  these  actors  had  no  pre- 
tence to  the  favor  designed  ;  yet  we  could  not  say  they 
had  done  us  any  further  harm,  than  letting  the  Town 
see,  the  parts  they  had  been  shown  in,  had  been  better 


CTBBER  AND  HIS  "apology:'  12$ 

done  by  those  to  whom  they  properly  belonged." 
Thus  the  diplomatic  CoUey  went  on  arguing,  and  as 
a  result  of  his  efforts  to  keep  the  peace  in  the  theatrical 
family  the  benefit  took  place,  but  in  his  endeavor  to 
make  everything  run  along  smoothly  he  went  too  far 
and  by  himself  supplying  a  deficiency  of  ten  pounds  in 
the  expected  receipts  put  Wilks  in  an  unreasonable 
rage.  The  irate  actor  vowed  he  would  leave  the  man- 
agement and  go  to  Ireland,  and  that  if  he  were  gone 
Dogget  and  Gibber  would  not  be  able  to  keep  the 
doors  open  a  week,  and  that  */  by  — — ,  he  would  not  be 
a  drudge  for  nothing." 

* '  As  I  knew  all  this  was  but  the  foam  of  the  high 
value  he  set  upon  himself,  I  thought  it  not  amiss  to 
seem  a  little  silently  concerned,  for  the  helpless  condi- 
tion to  which  his  resentment  of  the  injury  I  have  re- 
lated was  going  to  reduce  us  :  for  I  knew  I  had  a  friend 
in  his  heart,  that,  if  I  gave  him  a  little  time  to  cool 
would  soon  bring  him  to  reason  :  the  sweet  morsel  of  a 
thousand  pounds  a  year  was  not  to  be  met  with  at 
every  table,  and  might  tempt  a  nicer  palate  than  his 
own  to  swallow  it,  when  he  was  not  out  of  humor. ' ' 
The  morsel  was  so  tempting,  indeed,  that  Wilks  soon 
got  in  the  best  of  humor,  but  never  offered  to  reim- 
burse his  companion  for  that  much-objected- to  ten 
pounds. 

To  detail  the  incidents  and  vicissitudes  of  the  Tri- 
umvirate would  be  to  fill  a  book  ;  they  must  be  left 
within  the  borders  of  the  fascinating  Apology,  nor  is 


126  .     ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

there  need  to  go  into  an  account  of  how  Barton  Booth, 
then  a  rising  genius  of  the  stage,  was  admitted  to  a 
share  in  the  management,  to  the  disgust  of  Dogget, 
who  retired ;  or  how,  a  year  or  two  later.  Sir  Richard 
Steele  was  associated  with  the  re-organized  trio  of  Gib- 
ber, Wilks,  and  Booth.  Poor  obstinate  Dogget,  he  took 
life  hard  to  the  last.  He  sued  his  old  partners  for 
money  alleged  to  be  due  him  as  his  share  in  the  profits 
of  the  theatre,  and  got  a  verdict  of  six  hundred  pounds, 
with  interest,  but  when  his  lawyers'  bills  were  paid  he 
**  scarce  got  one  year's  purchase,"  chronicles  Gibber, 
* '  of  what  we  had  offered  him  without  law,  which  (as 
he  surviv'd  but  seven  years  after  it)  would  have  been 
an  annuity  of  five  hundred  pounds,  and  a  sine  cure  for 
life."  When  he  went  to  the  famous  Button's  coffee- 
house, where  such  men  as  Addison,  Steele,  and  Pope 
were  wont  to  meet  and  discuss  the  affairs  of  mankind, 
he  had  the  mortification  of  finding  the  hated  Wilks 
there,  not  to  speak  of  the  now  detested  Golley.  * '  For 
as  Wilks  and  he  were  differently  proud  ;  the  one  re- 
joicing in  a  captious,  over-bearing  valiant  pride  ;  and 
the  other  in  a  stiff"  sullen  purse-pride,  it  may  be  easily 
conceived,  when  two  such  tempers  met,  how  agreeable 
the  sight  of  one  was  to  the  other." 

But  Gibber  was  to  succeed  in  thawing  out  the  icy  re- 
serve with  which  his  former  partner  now  surrounded 
himself,  and  he  did  it,  as  might  be  expected,  in  a  canny 
fashion.  One  of  the  coffee-house  wags,  seizing  the 
humor  of  the  situation,  wrote  him  declaring  that  Dog- 


CIBBER  AND  HIS  ''APOLOGY^  12/ 

get  had  passed  away  to  another  world,  where  there 
were  neither  lawsuits  nor  unreasonable  managers. 
Colley  was  too  old  a  bird  to  be  deceived  by  the  trick, 
but  seeing  that  he  might  himself  make  capital  out  of 
it,  answered  the  letter  as  though  he  believed  the  sad 
news,  and  took  occasion  to  deliver  a  fervent  eulogy  on 
the  character  of  the  supposed  dead  man. 

Dogget  was  only  human,  and  when  he  was  shown 
what  his  former  friend  had  so  kindly  written  about  him, 
his  heart  softened.  But  let  the  diplomatist  himself  tell 
us  the  result : 

"  One  day  sitting  over-against  him,  at  the  same  cof- 
fee-house, where  we  often  mixt  at  the  same  table,  tho' 
we  never  exchanged  a  single  syllable,  he  graciously 
extended  his  hand,  for  a  pinch  of  my  snuff.  As  this 
seem'd  from  him,  a  sort  of  breaking  the  ice  of  his 
temper,  I  took  courage  upon  it,  to  break  silence  on  my 
side,  and  ask'd  him  how  he  lik'd  it.  To  which,  with 
a  slow  hesitation,  naturally  assisted  by  the  action  of  his 
taking  the  snuff,  he  reply 'd — Umh  !  the  best — Umh — 
I  have  tasted  a  great  while. '^  And,  after  **  a  few  days 
of  these  coy  lady-like  compliances  on  his  side,  he  grew 
into  a  more  conversable  temper. " 

For  all  his  managerial  prosperity,  his  success  as  a 
playwright  and  his  popularity  as  a  comedian,  depart- 
ments wherein  he  was  in  his  legitimate  sphere,  Colley 
Gibber  probably  cared  less  than  for  his  appointment,  in 
1730,  to  the  Poet  I^aureateship.  Yet  among  men  with 
literary  pretensions  he  was  the  least  deserving  of  the 


128  ECHOES  Of  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

laurel,  for  as  has  been  well  said,  in  the  whole  twenty- 
seven  years  that  he  boasted  of  the  honor  (he  died  in 
1757)  he  never  wrote  a  really  good  poem.  He  made  it 
a  point  to  laugh  publicly  at  his  own  effusions,  but  he 
must  have  had  a  belief,  in  that  curious  old  heart  of  his, 
that  they  were  by  no  means  as  poor  as  some  jealous 
fellow-poets  would  make  out. 

/'His  friends  gave  out,"  Dr.  Johnson  tells  Boswell, 
'  *  that  he  intended  his  birthday  Odes  should  be  bad  ; 
but  that  was  not  the  case.  Sir  ;  for  he  kept  them  many 
months  by  him,  and  a  few  years  before  he  died  he 
showed  me  one  of  them  with  great  solicitude  to  render 
it  as  perfect  as  might  be,  and  I  made  some  corrections 
to  which  he  was  not  very  willing  to  submit.  I  remem- 
ber the  following  couplet  in  allusion  to  the  King  *  and 
himself: 

*  Perch'don  the  eagle's  soaring  wing, 
The  lowly  linnet  loves  to  sing.' 

*  *  Sir,  he  had  heard  something  of  the  fabulous  tale 
of  the  wren  sitting  upon  the  eagle's  wing,  and  he  had 
applied  it  to  a  linnet. ' ' 

But  the  Poet  I^aureate  probably  still  considered  him- 
self a  linnet,  despite  the  objections  of  the  ponderous 
philosopher,  and  w^ent  on  singing  as  badly  and  happily 
as  ever  until  death  put  an  end  to  his  career.  He  had 
gone  through  many  experiences,  some  of  them  passing 
bitter  (had  not  Pope  ungenerously  made  him  the  hero 

*  George  II, 


CIBBER  AND  HIS  ''APOLOGY^  l2g 

of  liis  Dunciadf)  but  he  would  write  verses  to  the  end. 
They  are  long  since  forgotten,  but  that  entrancing 
Apology  with  its  delightful  pictures  of  his  theatrical 
contemporaries,  is  as  fresh  as  ever.  It  will  be  read 
when  greater  poets  than  he  have  sunk  into  oblivion, 
and  thus  perpetuate  the  name  of  one  of  the  most  re- 
markable characters  of  a  by-gone  epoch. 

9 


CHAPTER  VII. 

NKW    MASKS   AND    FACES. 

"  *  Odious  !  in  woollen  !  'twould  a  saint  provoke,* 
(Were  the  last  words  that  poor  Narcissa  spoke  ;) 
*  No,  let  a  charming  chintz  and  Brussels  lace 
Wrap  my  cold  limbs  and  shade  my  lifeless  face : 
One  would  not,  sure,  be  frightful  when  one's  dead. 
And  Betty — give  this  cheek  a  little  red.'  " 

THUS  wrote  the  classic  Pope  in  an  imaginary 
description  of  the  last  moments  of  that  most 
ravishing  and  graceful  comedienne  of  her  day,  Mistress 
Anne  Oldfield,  whose  greatness  consisted  in  a  thousand 
and  one  dainty  attractions  which  still  live  in  the  writ- 
ings of  her  contemporaries.  That  she  is  preserved  to  us 
even  in  this  shadowy  form  is  cause  for  gratitude,  for 
until  the  indefatigable  Edison  shall  have  improved  his 
kinetoscope,  so  that  the  achievements  of  a  player, 
either  in  gesture,  voice,  or  look,  may  be  stereotyped  for 
all  time,  the  lover  of  the  drama  can  only  familiarize 
himself  with  dead-and-gone  heroes  and  heroines  of  the 
stage  by  reading  the  testimony  of  their  admirers. 

If  such  testimony  is  to  count  for  anything,  ''  Nance  " 
Oldfield  was  one  of  the  most  7idive  and  fascinating 
women  who  ever  trod  the  boards  of  an  English  theatre. 

130 


NEW  MASKS  AND  FACES,  I31 

And  yet,  strange  to  say,  this  daughter  of  Comedy, 
who  was  to  win  such  unforgettable  distinction  in  imper- 
sonating ladies  of  quality,  was  apprenticed  in  early 
life  to  a  seamstress,  and  had  for  her  humble  relative  a 
Mrs.  Voss,  hostess  of  the  Mitre  Tavern,  in  St.  James 
Market,  London.  Nance,  as  a  young  girl,  made  her 
headquarters  at  this  public  house,  and  it  was  here  that 
the  dashing  Farquhar  accidently  heard  her  reading  a 
play  as  she  stood  behind  the  bar.  He  was  so  much 
impressed  ''with  the  proper  emphasis  and  agreeable 
turn  that  she  gave  to  each  character,  that  he  swore 
the  girl  was  cut  out  for  the  stage."  As  the  child  had 
a  wild  desire  to  become  an  actress,  her  mother,  *'  the 
next  time  she  saw  Captain  Vanbrugh  (afterward  Sir 
John)  who  had  a  great  respect  for  the  family,  acquainted 
him  with  Captain  Farquhar' s  opinion,  on  which  he 
desired  to  know  whether  her  heart  was  most  tragedy 
or  comedy.  Miss  being  called  in,  informed  him  that 
her  principal  inclination  was  to  the  latter,  having  at 
that  time  gone  through  all  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's 
comedies  ;  and  the  play  she  was  reading  when  Captain 
Farquhar  had  dined  there  having  been  The  Scornful 
Ladyy 

As  a  result  of  this  confession  of  youthful  ambition 
Captain  Vanbrugh  soon  introduced  Nance  to  the 
patentee  of  Drury  Lane,  Mr.  Rich,  who  took  her  into 
his  house  at  the  sumptuous  salary  of  fifteen  shillings  a 
a  week.  "However,  her  agreeable  figure  and  sweet- 
ness of  voice  soon  gave  her  the  preference  in  the  opin- 


132  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

ion  of  the  whole  town,  to  all  the  young  actresses  of 
that  time,  and  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  in  particular,  be- 
ing pleased  to  speak  to  Mr.  Rich  in  her  favor,  he  in- 
stantly raised  her  to  twenty  shillings  per  week.  After 
which  her  fame  and  salary  gradually  increased,  till  at 
length  they  both  obtained  that  height  which  her  merit 
entitled  her  to." 

When  perhaps  not  more  than  sixteen  years  old,  in 
1700,  the  young  aspirant  drew  attention  to  herself  by 
playing  Alinda  in  The  Pilgrim,  a  re-arrangement  by 
Vanbrugh  of  one  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  plays,  but 
she  had  still  several  seasons  to  wait  before  she  should 
burst  upon  the  town  in  all  her  glory  by  impersonating 
the  charming  Lady  Betty  Modish  in  Gibber's  comedy 
of  The  Careless  Husband.  But  let  Gibber  himself  tell 
us  the  story  of  her  beginning  and  ultimate  success. 

"In  the  year  1699,"  he  relates,  **  Mrs.  Oldfield  was 
first  taken  into  the  house,  where  she  remained  about  a 
twelvemonth  almost  a  mute,  and  unheeded,  till  Sir  John 
Vanbrugh,  who  first  recommended  her,  gave  her  the 
part  of  Ali?ida  in  The  Pilgrim,  revised.  This  gentle 
character,  happily,  became  that  want  of  confidence 
which  is  inseparable  from  young  beginners,  who,  with- 
out it,  seldom  arrive  at  any  excellence  :  Notwithstand- 
ing, I  own  I  was  then  so  far  deceived  in  my  opinion  of 
her  that  I  thought  she  had  little  more  than  her  person, 
that  appear' d  necessary  to  the  forming  of  a  good  actress  : 
for  she  set  out  with  so  extraordinary  diffidence,  that  it 
kept  her  too  despondingly  down,  to  a  formal,  plain  (not 


NE IV  MA SKS  AND  FA CES,  1 3 3 

to  say)  flat  manner  of  speaking.  Nor  could  the  silver 
tone  of  her  voice,  'till  after  some  time,  incline  my  ear 
to  any  hope  in  her  favor.  But  public  approbation  is 
.  the  warm  weather  of  a  theatrical  plant,  which  will  soon 
bring  it  forward  to  whatever  perfection  nature  has 
design' d  it.  However  Mrs.  Oldfield  (perhaps  for  want 
of  fresh  parts)  seem'd  to  come  but  slowly  forward,  'till 
the  year  1703. 

''Our  company,  that  summer,  acted  at  Bath  during 
the  residence  of  Queen  Anne  at  that  place  At  that 
time  it  happen' d  that  Mrs.  Verbruggen,  by  reason  of 
her  last  sickness  (of  which  she  some  few  months  after 
dy'd)  was  left  in  I^ondon  ;  and  though  most  of  her 
parts  were,  of  course,  to  be  dispos'd  of,  yet  so  earnest 
was  the  female  scramble  for  them,  that  only  one  of  them 
fell  to  the  share  of  Mrs.  Oldfield,  that  oi  Leonora  in  Sir 
Courtly  Nice ;  a  character  of  good  plain  sense,  but  not 
over  elegantly  written.  It  was  in  this  part  that  Mrs. 
Oldfield  surprised  me  into  an  opinion  of  her  having  all 
the  innate  powers  of  a  good  actress,  though  they  were 
yet  but  in  the  bloom  of  what  they  promised.  Before 
she  had  acted  this  part  I  had  so  cold  an  expectation  of 
her  abilities,  that  she  could  scarce  prevail  with  me  to 
rehearse  with  her  the  scenes  she  was  chiefly  concerned 
in,  with  Sir  Courtly^  which  I  then  acted.  However,  we 
ran  them  over,  with  mutual  inadvertency,  of  one  an- 
other. I  seem'd  careless,  as  concluding  that  any 
assistance  I  could  give  her  would  be  to  little  or  no 
purpose  ;  and  she  mutter' d  out  her  words  in  a  sort  of 


134  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

misty  manner,  at  my  low  opinion  of  her.  But  when 
the  play  came  to  be  acted,  she  had  a  just  occasion  to 
triumph  over  the  errors  of  my  judgment,  by  the  (al- 
most) amazement  that  her  unexpected  performance 
awak'd  me  to ;  so  forward  and  so  sudden  a  step  into 
nature  I  had  never  seen  ;  and  what  made  her  perform- 
ance more  valuable,  that  I  knew  it  all  proceeded  from 
her  understanding,  untaught  and  unassisted  by  any 
more  experienced  actor. ' ' 

It  is  curious  that  in  the  early  part  of  her  career  Mrs. 
Oldfield  suffered  from  the  same  fate  that  beset  the  in- 
credulous Gibber — several  competent  judges  refused  to 
believe  in  those  remarkable  powers  which  later  were  to 
set  all  lyondon  agog,  especially  when  she  should  appear 
in  parts  of  the  genteel  comedy  type.  Even  in  17 12- 13 
Swift  contemptuously  writes  to  his  beloved  Stella  :  "I 
was  this  morning  at  ten  at  the  rehearsal  of  Mr,  Addi- 
son's play  called  Cato,  which  is  to  be  acted  on  Friday. 
There  was  not  above  half  a  score  of  us  to  see  it.  We 
stood  on  the  stage,  and  it  was  foolish  enough  to  see  the 
actors  prompted  every  moment,  and  the  poet  directing 
them  ;  and  the  drab  that  acts  Cato's  daughter  out  in  the 
midst  of  a  passionate  part,  and  then  calling  out  '  What 's 
next?'" 

But  the  "  drab  "  that  acted  Gate's  daughter  had  be- 
come as  famous  as  ever  was  that  bitter,  bishopric-hunt- 
ing Dean.  Once  that  Gibber  became  converted  to  her 
praises  he  was  quick  to  utilize  her  shining  talents  to  his 
own  advantage.     Her  success  as  Leonora  decided  him 


NEW  MASKS  AND  FACES.  I  35 

in  the  belief  that  she  would  soon  be  the  "  foremost 
ornament  of  our  theatre,"  and  he  adds  : 

"  Upon  this  unexpected  sally,  then,  of  the  power  and 
disposition  of  so  unforeseen  an  actress,  it  was  that  I 
again  took  up  the  two  first  acts  of  the  Careless  Husband, 
which  I  had  written  the  summer  before,  and  had  thrown 
aside  in  despair  of  having  justice  done  to  the  character 
of  Lady  Betty  Modish,  by  any  one  woman  then  among 
us  ;  Mrs.  Verbruggen  being  now  in  a  very  declining 
state  of  health,  and  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  out  of  my  reach, 
and  engag'd  in  another  company  :  But,  as  I  have  said, 
Mrs.  Oldfield  having  thrown  out  such  new  proffers  of 
a  genius,  I  was  no  longer  at  a  loss  for  support ;  my 
doubts  were  dispell'd,  and  I  had  now  a  new  call  to  finish 
it.  Accordingly,  the  Careless  Husband  took  its  fate 
upon  the  stage  the  winter  following  in  1704.  What- 
ever favorable  reception  this  comedy  has  met  with 
from  the  Publick  it  would  be  unjust  in  me  not  to  place 
a  large  share  of  it  to  the  account  of  Mrs.  Oldfield  ;  not 
only  from  the  uncommon  excellence  of  her  action,  but 
even  from  her  personal  manner  of  conversing.  There 
are  many  sentiments  in  the  character  of  Lady  Betty 
Modish  that  I  may  almost  say  were  originally  her  own, 
or  only  dress' d  with  a  little  more  care,  than  when  they 
negligently  fell  from  her  lively  humor.  Had  her 
birth  *  placed  her  in  a  higher  rank  of  life,  she  had  cer- 


*  It  is  said  that  Mrs.  Oldfield's  father,  Captain  Oldfield,  was 
by  birth  a  gentleman. 


136  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

tainly  appeared  in  reality,  what  in  this  play  she  only 
excellently  acted,  an  agreeably  gay  woman  of  quality, 
a  little  too  conscious  of  her  natural  attractions." 

' '  I  have  often  seen  her, ' '  writes  on  the  admiring  Col- 
ley,  **  in  private  societies  where  women  of  the  best  rank 
might  have  borrowed  some  part  of  her  behaviour,  with- 
out the  least  diminution  of  their  sense  or  dignity.  And 
this  very  morning,  where  I  am  now  writing  at  the  Bath, 
November  11,  1738,  the  same  words  were  said  of  her 
by  a  Lady  of  Condition,  whose  better  j udgment  of  her 
personal  merit  in  that  light  has  embolden' d  me  to  re- 
peat them." 

The  Oldfield's  morals  were  of  a  somewhat  flexible 
character,  to  put  it  mildly,  yet  the  fashionable  people 
of  her  time  looked  with  leniency  upon  her  little  irregu- 
larities, and  made  more  of  her  than  if  she  had  been 
the  most  exemplary  of  actresses.  She  had  many  mas- 
culine admirers,  and  when  Arthur  Maynwaring,  a 
wealthy,  influential  bachelor,  connected  with  Govern- 
ment, crossed  her  smooth  and  easy-going  path,  she 
succumbed  to  what  she  ma)^  have  considered  the 
exigencies  of  the  occasion,  took  charge  of  his  household, 
and  loved  him  devotedly  until  his  death,  in  17 12,  left 
her  without  a  protector. 

But  General  Charles  Churchill,  the  son  of  an  elder 
brother  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  came  to  the  rescue, 
and  helped  to  dispel  the  sorrow  into  which  she  had 
been  plunged  by  the  decease  of  the  handsome  Mayn- 
waring. 


NEW  MASKS  AND  FACES.  1 37 

"None  led  through  youth  a  gayer  life  than  he, 
Cheerful  in  converse,  smart  in  repartee," 

SO  it  may  be  imagined  that  he  proved  a  gay  companion 
for  the  yielding  Nance.  By  him  she  had  one  son  who 
married  Lady  Mary  Walpole,  a  natural  child  of  the 
great  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  and  she  was  also  the  mother 
of  a  son  who  had  been  publicly  acknowledged  by  his 
father,  Mr.  Maynwaring.  I^ittle  eccentricities  of  con- 
duct like  this  were  tenderly  treated. 

Chetwood,  in  his  General  History  of  the  Stage,  kindly 
observes  that  * '  her  amours  seemed  to  lose  that  glare 
which  appears  round  the  persons  of  the  failing  Fair ; 
neither  was  it  ever  known  that  she  troubled  the  repose 
of  any  lady's  lawful  claim  ;  and  was  far  more  con- 
stant than  millions  in  the  conjugal  noose." 

The  same  writer,  who  had  himself  seen  Oldfield  in 
the  meridian  of  her  fame,  remembered  that  '*  in  her 
full  round  of  glory  in  comedy  she  used  to  slight  tragedy. 
She  would  often  say  /  hate  to  have  a  page  dragging 
my  tail  about.  Why  do  they  not  give  Porter  these  parts  f 
She  can  put  on  a  better  Tragedy  face  than  I  cayi.  When 
Mithridates  was  revised,  it  was  with  much  difficulty  she 
was  prevailed  upon  to  take  the  part,  but  she  perform' d 
it  to  the  utmost  length  of  perfection,  and,  after  that, 
seem'd  much  better  reconcil'd  to  Tragedy." 

Indeed,  while  the  actress  was  much  more  en  rapporte 
with  comedy  h  la  mode  she  could  play  tragic  parts  on 
occasion,  just  as  Chetwood  pointed  out.  "What  a 
majestical   dignity   in    Cleopatra!''  he  exclaims   fer- 


138  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE^ 

vently,  recalling  her  achievements.  "  Such  a  finished 
figure  on  the  stage  was  never  yet  seen.  In  Calista^  the 
Fair  Penitent,  she  was  inimitable  in  the  third  act,  with 
Horatio,  when  she  tears  the  letter,  with 

*    .     .      .To  atoms !  thus ! 
Thus  let  me  tear  the  vile  detested  falsehood, 
The  wicked  lying  evidence  of  shame  !  * 

her  excellent  clear  voice  of  passion,  her  piercing  flaming 
eye,  with  manner  and  action  suiting,  us'd  to  make  me 
shrink  with  awe,  and  seem'd  to  put  her  monitor  Horatio 
into  a  mouse-hole.  I  almost  gave  him  up  for  a  trouble- 
some puppy  ;  and  though  Mr.  Booth  play'd  the  part  of 
Lothario  I  could  hardly  lug  him  up  to  the  importance 
of  triumphing  over  such  a  finish' d  piece  of  perfection, 
that  seemed  to  be  too  much  dignified  to  lose  her  Virtue. ' ' 
The  power  of  Mrs.  Oldfield's  acting  seems  to  have 
come  from  a  subtle  charm  difficult  to  suggest  because 
of  its  delicacy  and  elusive-like  quality,  just  as  the  most 
fluent  dramatic  critic  finds  it  hard  to  photograph  the 
witchery  and  piquancy  of  Ellen  Terry  through  the 
prosaic  medium  of  pen,  ink,  and  paper.  "She  was 
tallish  in  stature,"  as  Gibber  pictures  his  frail  friend, 
* '  beautiful  in  action  and  aspect,  and  she  always  looked 
like  one  of  those  principal  figures  in  the  finest  paint- 
ings that  first  seize  and  longest  delight  the  eye  of  the 
spectator.  Her  countenance  was  benevolent  like  her 
heart,  yet  it  could  express  contemptuous  indignity  so 
well  that  once,  when  a  malignant  beau  rose  in  the  pit 


NE  W  MA  SKS  A  ND  FA  CES.  1 39 

to  hiss  her,  she  made  him  instantly  hide  his  head  and 
vanish  by  a  pausing  look,  and  her  utterance  of  the 
words,  '  poor  creature.'  " 

Her  benevolence  of  heart,  to  which  Gibber  thus  al- 
ludes in  passing,  had  practical  exemplification  in  her 
assisting,  with  a  pension  of  fifty  pounds  a  year,  that 
curious  literary  individual,  Richard  Savage.  She  was 
charitable  in  other  directions,  too,  and  she  added  to 
this  virtue  a  great  good-sense  and  amiability  in  mat- 
ters connected  with  her  art.  It  appears  that  **  to  the 
last  3^ear  of  her  life ' '  (again  I  must  quote  from  the 
indispensable  Apology^  "  she  never  undertook  any 
part  she  liked  without  being  importunately  desirous 
of  having  all  the  helps  in  it  that  another  could  possibly 
give  her.  By  knowing  so  much  herself,  she  found 
how  much  more  there  was  of  nature  yet  needful  to 
be  known.*  Yet  it  was  a  hard  matter  to  give  her  any 
hint  that  she  was  not  able  to  take  or  improve.  With 
all  this  merit  she  was  tractable  and  less  presuming  in 
her  station  than  several  that  had  not  half  her  preten- 
sions to  be  troublesome.  But  she  lost  nothing  by  her 
easy  conduct ;  she  had  everything  she  ask'd,  which 
she  took  care  should  be  always  reasonable,  because  she 
hated  as  much  to  be  grudg'd  as  deny'd  a  civility. 
Upon  her  extraordinary  action  in  the  Provoked  Hus- 
band, the  managers  made  her  a  present  of  fifty  guineas 
more  than  her  agreement,  which  never  was  more  than 

*  This  quotation  deserves  to  be  posted  in  the  greenroom 
of  every  theatre. 


I40  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

a  verbal  one  ;  for  they  knew  she  was  above  deserting 
them  to  engage  upon  any  other  stage,  and  she  was  con- 
scious they  would  never  think  it  their  interest  to  give 
her  cause  of  complaint." 

What  a  shining  example  is  Mistress  Oldfield  for 
many  an  actress  who,  without  one  tenth  of  her  ability, 
turns  the  managerial  hair  almost  white  by  her  exactions 
and  assumption,  and  thinks  the  breaking  of  the  most 
ironclad  contract  quite  in  order — if  the  violation  thereof 
is  done  by  herself. 

With  all  her  amiability  the  genial  Nance  had  a  mind 
of  her  own,  and  even  in  her  lovers  .she  showed  herself 
a  woman  of  decision.  She  might  sacrifice  her  honor 
and  risk  her  reputation  for  Mr.  Maynwaring  or  Charles 
Churchill,  but  she  also  could  be  as  icy  to  an  admirer  as 
was  the  chaste  Bracegirdle.  That  trait  was  displayed 
very  clearly  in  the  case  of  Sir  Roger  Mostings,  a  baro- 
net who  was  madly  enamoured  of  the  actress,  despite 
the  indifference  with  which  his  attentions  were  invaria- 
bly treated.  After  the  unsuccessful  Jacobite  uprising 
of  17 15,  Sir  Roger,  who  then  commanded  a  troop  in  the 
Life  Guards,  spoke  so  freely  in  behalf  of  the  noblemen 
imprisoned  for  complicity  in  the  rebellion,  that  he  was 
banished  from  Court  and  ordered  to  retire  at  once  to 
his  estates.  When  the  news  of  his  disgrace  came,  his 
greatest  concern  was  at  the  prospect  of  leaving  the 
irresistible  Oldfield.  She  might  snub  him  as  much  as 
she  dared,  yet  it  was  a  pleasure  for  him  to  see  her,  not- 
withstanding, and  now  that  even  this  enjoyment  was 


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NEW  MASKS  AND  FACES,  I4I 

denied  him  he  shed  bitter  tears,  soldier  as  he  was. 
Heroic  measures  were  necessary  unless  he  were  to  lose 
the  dear  charmer  forever,  and  so  away  he  went  to  the 
obdurate  lady,  hoping  to  soften  her  heart,  by  a  propo- 
sal of  marriage.  They  should  wed  at  once,  and  the 
happy  pair  could  pass  their  honeymoon  on  the  estates 
to  which  an  unkind  Government  had  ordered  the  too 
talkative  baronet.  But  this  dream  of  happiness  was 
not  to  be  ;  Oldfield  contemptuously  refused  the  opportu- 
nity of  prefixing  Lady  to  her  name,  and  the  disconso- 
late Sir  Roger  had  to  retire  into  the  country,  hopeless 
and  alone. 

When  Mistress  Oldfield  died  in  1730,  her  fame  was 
considered  great  enough  to  justify  her  burial  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  and  the  ceremonies  attending  her  fu- 
neral were  marked  by  a  pomp  that  might  have  sufiiced 
for  the  putting  away  of  royalty  itself.  Yet  in  France, 
at  this  very  time,  actors  were  treated  by  the  Church  as 
social  lepers,  and  when  their  poor  lives  were  finished, 
and  their  last  parts  played,  no  consecrated  ground 
might  hold  their  clay  ;  thieves,  liars,  and  murderers 
were  not  grudged  a  final  lodging  within  the  sacred 
confines,  but  the  unfortunate  Thespian,  however  esti- 
mable might  have  been  his  private  character,  was  only 
deemed  fit  for  the  cold  grave  of  an  unbaptized  vaga- 
bond. 

How  different  was  the  picture  in  England,  where  we 
have  already  seen  the  noble  Betterton  interred  with 
every  circumstance  of  funereal  glory.     As  the  remains 


142  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

of  that  **  incomparable  sweet  girl  "  (for  incomparable, 
sweet,  and  girlish  Oldfield  continued  to  the  end,  despite 
her  forty-seven  years),  were  reverently  borne  to  the 
Abbey,  through  the  very  street  in  which  she  had  once 
worked  as  a  poor  seamstress,  more  than  one  eyewitness 
must  have  felt  that,  unlike  the  prophets,  actresses  were 
not  without  honor  in  their  own  country,  and  that 
transcendent  genius,  like  charity,. would  cover  a  mul- 
titude of  sins — even  though  the  sinner  belong  to  the 
sometime  despised  player's  craft.  But  no  one  could 
despise  the  lovable  Nance  ;  sooner  would  her  contem- 
poraries have  railed  at  the  rare  sunshine  for  which  they 
often  sighed,  than  have  cast  a  stone  at  this  fair,  fragile 
woman  who  had  done  so  much  to  bring  laughter  into 
their  foggy,  humdrum  existence. 

And  so  let  us  bid  farewell  to  the  comedienne  in  the 
same  Christian  frame  of  mind.  We  never  had  the  in- 
estimable privilege  of  seeing  her,  yet  we  can  read  of 
the  charmer  in  the  graphic  pages  of  Gibber,  and  even 
in  this  reflected  fashion  are  glad  to  keep  her  image 
before  us.  Her  amours  may  be  forgiven,  at  least  on 
this  side  the  grave ;  the  two  men  for  whom  she  sac- 
rificed so  much  have  been  relegated  to  the  limbo  of 
oblivion,  and  for  the  name  of  Oldfield  there  will  al- 
ways be  a  pleasant  thought,  a  grateful  word. 

As  that  selfsame  Savage,  to  whom  she  had  been  so 
kind,  wrote  of  her  : 

**  So  bright  she  shone,  in  ev'ry  different  part, 
She  gain'd  despotic  empire  o'er  the  heart ; 


NEW  MASKS  AND  FACES.  1 43 

Knew  how  each  various  motion  to  control, 
Soothe  ev'ry  passion,  and  subdue  the  soul : 
As  she  or  gay,  or  sorrowful  appears, 
She  charms  our  mirth,  or  triumphs  in  our  tears. 
When  Cleopatra's  form  she  chose  to  wear. 
We  saw  the  Monarch's  mien,  the  beauty's  air ; 
Charm' d  with  the  sight,  her  cause  we  all  approve 

And  like  her  lover,  give  up  all  for  love  : 
Antotiy's  fate,  instead  of  Ccssar's  choose, 
And  wish  for  her  we  had  a  world  to  lose. 

"  But  now  the  gay  delightful  scene  is  o'er, 
And  that  sweet  form  must  glad  our  world  no  more  ; 
Relentless  Death  has  stop'd  the  tuneful  tongue, 
And  clos'd  those  eyes,  for  all,  but  Death,  too  strong  : 
Blasted  that  face  where  ev'ry  beauty  bloom'd, 
And  to  eternal  rest  the  graceful  mover  doom'd." 

One  of  the  best  known  of  Oldfield's  associates  was 
the  Robert  Wilks  of  whom  we  have  heard  not  a  little 
from  Colley  Gibber — the.  selfsame  Wilks  who  took 
more  interest  in  the  artistic  part  of  the  management  at 
Drury  Lane  than  he  did  in  the  very  practical  details 
so  dear  to  the  business-like  Dogget.  He  may  have 
had  a  weakness,  just  as  the  Apology  shows,  for  deck- 
ing himself  in  fine  clothes,  but  it  is  to  be  remembered 
that  he  likewise  took  care  that  his  fellow-actors  should 
be  similarly  adorned.  Indeed,  he  was  one  of  the  most 
charitable  actors  of  his  time  ;  he  it  was  who  stirred 
himself  to  help  the  two  children  of  the  unfortunate 
Farquhar  after  the  melancholy  death  of  the  soldier- 
playwright  ;  he  materially  aided  the  erratic  Richard 
Savage,*  who  lacked  the  faculty  of  aiding  himself,  and 

*When  Savage  was  so  destitute  that  starvation  stared  him 
in  the  face  a  subscription  was  started  in  his  behalf.     He  re- 


144  ECHOES  OP   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

he  was  kindly  in  a  thousand  and  one  ways  that  be- 
spoke the  possession  of  a  warm,  sj^mpathetic  heart. 
He  was  "  a  man,"  says  Dr.  Johnson,  '*  who,  whatever 
were  his  abilities  or  skill  as  an  actor,  deserved  at  least 
to  be  remembered  for  his  virtues,  which  are  not  often 
to  be  found  in  the  World,  and  perhaps  less  often  in  his 
profession  than  in  others" — which  shows  that  while 
the  learned  lexicographer  had  a  very  correct  idea  as 
to  this  actor's  character,  he  put  an  unfair  stigma  upon 
a  fraternity  noted  for  the  generosity  of  its  members. 

Wilks  came  of  an  old  Worcestershire  family  ;  he  was 
born,  however,  near  Dublin,  where  his  father  was  one 
of  the  pursuivants  of  the  lyord  lyieutenant  of  Ireland. 
The  son  received  what  was  then  considered  a  genteel 
education  ;  he  wrote  a  fine  hand,  and  when  he  reached 
the  age  of  eighteen  got  a  clerkship  in  the  Secretary  of 
State's  office.  But  the  drudgery  and  commonplace  of 
the  work  hardly  proved  an  ideal  occupation  for  the 
young  man,  and  his  genius  was  soon  to  show  itself  in 
a  far  different  direction.  It  so  happened  that  he  lodged 
near  Mr.  Richards,  an  actor  well-known  to  Dublin 
audiences,  and  with  whom  he  formed  a  great  intimacy. 
Wilks,  no  doubt,  looked  upon  his  friend  as  something 
wonderful  and  quite  apart  from  the  generality  of  man- 
kind, and  was  only  too  glad  to  hold  Richards' s  play- 
book,  to  see  if  the  latter  were  letter-perfect  in  his  lines. 

ceived  the  money,  set  out  on  a  journey  for  Wales,  and  after 
getting  as  far  as  Bristol  spent  all  of  his  new-found  gold,  ending 
his  remarkable  career  by  dying  in  the  jail  of  that  place. 


NEW  MASKS  AND  FACES,  1 45 

"  Mr.  Wilks  used  to  read  the  introductive  speeches," 
says  Chetwood,  "  with  such  proper  emphasis,  cadence, 
and  all  the  various  passions,  that  the  encomiums  given 
by  Mr.  Richards  began  to  fire  his  mind  for  the  drama. 
It  was  with  very  little  persuasion  he  ventured  to  act 
privately  the  Colonel  in  the  Spanish  Fryar,  at  Mr. 
Ashbury's,*  the  ensuing  Christmas  ;  where  he  received 
such  approbation  from  that  great  master  as  confirm' d 
his  intention.  The  first  part  he  played  in  the  theatre 
was  Othello,  with  the  utmost  applause  ;  and,  as  he  told 
me,  pleased  all  but  himself.  He  went  on  with  great 
success  for  two  years  when  his  friend  Mr.  Richards 
advised  him  to  try  his  fortune  in  England,  and  gave 
him  letters  of  recommendation  to  Mr.  Betterton,  who 
receiv'd  him  very  kindly,  and  entered  him  at  fifteen 
shillings  a  week." 

At  the  very  outset  of  his  career  in  I^ondon  Wilks  un- 
consciously paid  Betterton  one  of  the  most  flattering 
of  compliments,  and  it  is  probable  that  the  dear  old 
man  regarded  him  with  all  the  more  favor  in  conse- 
quence. **  His  first  appearance  on  the  English  stage 
was  in  the  part  of  the  young  Prince  in  the  Maid's 
Tragedy,  a  very  insignificant  character,  requiring  little 
more  than  an  amiable  figure.  Mr.  Betterton  performed 
Melantius ;  but  when  that  veteran  actor  came  to  ad- 
dress him  on  the  battlements,  to  excuse  himself  for  the 
death  of  the  King  in  the  play,  Mr.  Wilks  affirmed  to 

*  Joseph  Ashbury  was  Master  of  the  Revels  in  Ireland,  and 
an  eminent  actor  and  teacher  as  well. 


146  ECHOES   OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

me  that  the  dignity  of  Mr.  Betterton  struck  him  with 
such  an  awe,  that  he  had  much  ado  to  utter  the  little 
he  had  to  say.  Mr.  Better,ton,  observing  his  confusion, 
said  to  him,  Young  mari^  this  fear  does  not  ill  become  yoic  ; 
a  horse  that  sets  out  at  the  strength  of  his  speed  will  soon 
be  jaded. ' ' 

The  young  man  recovers  from  this  fortunate  fright, 
rises  rapidly  in  the  estimation  of  the  public,  has  his 
salar}^  raised,  and  is  professionally  fathered  b}^  Better- 
ton.  Then  he  marries,  applies  for  an  increase  of  com- 
pensation, which  is  denied  him,  and  thereupon  contracts 
with  Mr.  Ashbury  to  play  in  Dublin  for  sixty  pounds 
a  year  and  a  clear  benefit,  "  which  in  those  times  was 
much  more  than  any  other  ever  had."  When  he  takes 
his  leave  of  "  old  Thomas  "  the  great  actor  expresses 
much  regret  at  his  coming  departure  and  says:  "I 
fancy  that  gentleman  (pointing  to  the  manager*),  if  he 
has  not  too  much  obstinacy  to  own  it,  will  be  the  first 
that  repents  your  parting ;  for,  if  I  foresee  aright,  you 
will  be  greatly  wanted  here. ' ' 

This  is  balm  to  the  wounded  soul  of  Wilks,  and  he 
goes  to  Ireland  with  the  praise  of  the  immortal  Better- 
ton  ringing  pleasantly  through  his  head  ;  soon  the 
genteel  Mountford  dies  and  Drury  lyane  is  bereft  of 
one  of  its  strongest  and  most  graceful  pillars.  The  de- 
serter is  thereupon  sent  to  with  proposals  to  return  at 
a  salary  of  four  pounds  a  week  (the  equivalent  to  the 
stipend  of  the  English  Roscius),  and  the  temptation  is 
*  Mr.  Rich. 


•      NEW  MASKS  AND  FACES.  1 47 

vSo  great  that  a  favorable  answer  is  returned  to  the  di- 
rectorate of  the  Theatre  Royal.  But  Ashbury  has  no 
wish  to  let  his  new  acquisition  slip  so  easily  through 
his  fingers ;  he  obtains  an  order  from  the  Duke  of 
Orniond,  I,ord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  to  prevent  the 
departure  of  Mr.  Wilks,,  and  the  latter,  having  timeh^ 
warning  of  so  bold  a  stratagem  on  the  part  of  a  too 
admiring  manager,  secretly  boards  a  vessel  at  Hoath 
and  is  soon  landed,  safe  and  sound,  on  English  soil. 
Back  again  at  Drury  Lane,  he  becomes  a  greater  favor- 
ite than  ever  ;  a  few  years  later  he  is  one  of  the  famous 
Triumvirate  of  Drury  Lane  and  contributing  to  that 
golden  era  when  "the  stage  was  in  full  perfection"  ; 
while  *  *  greenrooms  were  free  from  indecencies  of 
every  kind,  and  might  justly  be  compared  to  the  most 
elegant  drawing-rooms  of  the  prime  quality."  This 
was  the  epoch  when  "  no  fops  or  coxcombs  ever  shew 'd 
their  monkey  tricks  there  ;  but  if  they  chanced  to  thrust 
in,  were  aw'd  into  respect;  even  persons  of  the  first 
rank  and  taste,  of  both  sexes,  would  often  mix  with  the 
performers,  without  any  stain  to  their  honour  or  un- 
derstanding ;  and,  indeed,  Mr.  Wilks  was  so  genteelly 
elegant  in  his  fancy  of  dress  for  the  stage,  that  he  was 
often  followed  in  his  fashion,  tho',  in  the  street,  his 
plainness  of  habit  was  remarkable. ' '  * 
This  remarkable  actor,  who  was 

"...     bora  with  ev'ry  art  to  please  ! 
Politeness,  grace,  gentiUty  and  ease," 

*  ChetwoQji. 


148  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

had  a  happy  faculty  of  dressing  himself  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage, and  this  quality,  combined  with  the  fact  that 
he  was  an  admirable  comedian  in  a  certain  range  of 
debonair  parts,  made  him  a  model  for  the  elegant 
beaux  of  his  day.  "  Whatever  he  did  on  the  stage," 
said  an  admiring  writer,  * '  let  it  be  ever  so  trifling — 
whether  it  consisted  in  putting  on  his  gloves,  or  taking 
out  his  watch,  lolling  on  his  cane,  or  taking  snuff" — 
every  movement  was  marked  by  such  an  ease  of  breed- 
ing and  manner,  everything  told  so  strongly  the  invol- 
untary motion  of  a  gentleman,  that  it  was  impossible 
to  consider  the  character  he  represented  in  any  other 
light  than  that  of  reality  ;  but  what  was  still  more  sur- 
prising, that  person  who  could  thus  delight  an  audi- 
ence from  the  gayety  and  sprightliness  of  his  manner, 
I  met  the  next  day  in  the  street,  hobbling  to  a  hackney- 
coach,  so  enfeebled  by  age*  and  infirmities  that  I  could 
scarcely  believe  him  to  be  the  same  man." 

As  Steele  nicely  puts  it,  Wilks  had  **  a  singular  tal- 
ent in  representing  the  graces  of  nature ;  Gibber  the 
deformity  in  the  affectation  of  them, ' '  and  he  draws 
this  fine  contrast  between  the  rCvSpective  methods  of 
the  two  actors  : 

"  Were  -I  a  writer  of  plays  I  should  never  employ 
either  of  them  in  parts  which  had  not  their  bent  this 
way.  This  is  seen  in  the  inimitable  strain  and  run 
of  good  humor  which  is  kept  up  in  the  character  of 

*  Wilks  died  in  1732,  two  or  three  years  after  this  criticism 
was  penned. 


NEW  MASKS  AND  FACES, 


149 


Wildair^  and  in  the  nice  and  delicate  abuse  of  under- 
standing in  that  of  Sir  Novelty.  Cibber  in  another 
light  hits  exquisitely  the  flat  civility  of  an  affected 
gentleman  usher,  and  Wilks  the  easy  flatness  of  a 
gentleman.  ...  To  beseech  gracefully,  to  ap- 
proach respectfully,  to  pity,  to  mourn,  to  love,  are  the 
places  wherein  Wilks  may  be  said  to  shine  with  the 
utmost  beauty.  To  rally  pleasantly,  to  scorn  artfully, 
to  flatter,  to  ridicule  and  neglect  are  what  Cibber 
would  perform  with  no  less  excellence." 

Of  that  third  member  of  the  Triumvirate,  Thomas 
Dogget,  we  have  already  heard  something  from  Cibber 
himself.  He  has  been  pictured  as  the  most  original  and 
the  strictest  observer  of  nature  of  his  time,  who  was 
ridiculous,  without  impropriety,  and  had  a  different  look 
for  every  different  kind  of  humor.  * '  Though  he  was 
an  excellent  mimic,  he  imitated  nothing  but  nature." 
He  was  a  queer  man,  this  Dogget,  with  a  wonderful 
eye  for  the  main  chance  and  an  essentially  practical 
way  of  viewing  men  and  things.  Once  when  his  land- 
lady's  maid  went  into  his  room  and  cut  her  throat  with 
one  of  the  player's  razors,  he  exhibited  great  emotion 
on  being  told  of  the  sad  occurrence,  but  as  he  exclaimed 
* '  Zounds  !  I  hope  it  was  not  with  my  best  razor, ' '  it 
w^as  naturally  inferred  that  his  grief  would  not  prove 
incurable. 

In  his  will  Dogget  bequeathed  a  sum  of  money  the 
interest  whereof  was  to  be  devoted  to  the  purchase  of 
a  coat  and  silver  badge  to  be  rowed  for  every  year  by 


I50  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

Thames  watermen,  from  London  Bridge  to  Chelsea. 
This  gave  rise  to  the  following  lines,  written  by  a 
facetious  poet  some  years  after  the  death  of  the  testa- 
tor: 

'*  Tom  Dogget,  the  geatest  sly  drole  in  his  parts, 
In  acting  was  certain  a  master  of  arts. 
A  monument  left — no  herald  is  fuller, 
His  praise  is  sung  yearly  by  many  a  sculler. 
Ten  thousand  years  hence,  if  the  world  lasts  so  long, 
Tom  Dogget  must  still  be  the  theme  of  their  song." 

A  greater  actor  than  Dogget  was  Barton  Booth,  one 

of  the  most  scholarly  of  tragedians,  the  creator  of  the 

title  part  in  Addison's  Cato,  and  the  dear  friend  of 

Lord  Bolingbroke,  who  was  wont  to  send  his  chariot 

to  tbe  theatre  every  evening  to  convey  the  great  man 

to  the  country.     Pope  has   immortalized  him   in   the 

lines : 

"  Booth  enters  :  hark  !  the  universal  peal ! 
'  But  has  he  spoken  ?  '     Not  a  syllable. 
'  What  shook  the  stage  and  made  the  people  stare  ?  ' 
Cato's  long  wig,  flower'd  gown,  and  lacquer'd  chair." 

Booth  was  a  gentleman  by  birth,  a  relation  of  the 
Earl  of  Warrington,  and  a  prospective  candidate  for 
Holy  Orders.  When  seventeen  years  old  he  ran  away 
from  home,  and  before  very  long,  in  1698,  had  made 
his  dibut  on  the  Dublin  stage  as  the  dusky  Oroonoko. 
The  event  was  a  triumph  for  the  young  actor,  but, 
curiously  enough,  came  very  near  being  a  dismal  fail- 
ure, because  of  an  odd  accident  that  befell  him.  The 
evening  was  very  warm,  and  in  the  last  scene  of  the 


NEW  MASKS  AND  FACES,  151 

play,  as  he  waited  to  go  on,  he  unthinkingly  wiped  his 
darkened  face,  so  that  the  lamp-black  on  it  became 
streaked,  and,  as  he  afterward  expressed  it,  gave  him 
the  appearance  of  a  chimney-sweeper.  Of  course  there 
was  much  laughter  from  the  audience  at  sight  of  the 
strangely  marked  Oroonoko,  but  the  next  night  when 
the  performance  was  repeated,  an  actress  fitted  a  crape 
mask  to  his  face.  As  ill-luck  would  have  it,  this 
contrivance  slipped  off  in  the  very  first  scene,  and 
"Zounds!"  subsequently  related  the  tragedian,  "I 
looked  like  a  magpie  !  When  I  came  off  they  lamp- 
blacked  me  for  the  rest  of  the  night,  so  that  I  was 
flayed  before  it  could  be  got  off  again." 

Booth  remained  in  Ireland  nearly  two  years,  and 
then  began  his  long  career  of  triumphs  in  London.  In 
Dublin  he  had  been  an  ardent  lover  of  the  flowing 
bowl,  but  the  sad  straits  into  which  Powell  had  fallen  as 
the  result  of  drink  made  so  distressful  an  impression  on 
him  that  he  completely  reformed  in  this  direction,  and 
as  he  was  naturally  a  student,  possessed  a  melodious 
voice,  great  personal  beauty,  and  an  intuitive  dramatic 
spirit,  he  quickly  developed  into  an  artist  who  in  some 
respects  was  looked  upon,  and  justly,  as  Betterton's 
successor. 

He  seems  to  have  had  much  of  the  latter' s  amiability 
of  character,  or,  to  quote  a  quaint  passage  from  Chet- 
wood,  "  he  had  a  vast  fund  of  understanding  as  well 
as  good  nature,  and  a  persuasive  elocution  even  in 
common  discourse,  that  would  even  compel  you  to  be- 


152  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

lieve  him  against  your  judgment  of  things."  It  ap- 
pears, further,  that  '*  in  his  younger  days  he  admired 
none  of  the  Heathen  Deities  so  much  as  Jolly  Bacchus  ; 
to  him  he  was  very  devout ;  yet,  if  he  drank  ever  so 
deep,  it  never  marr'd  his  study  or  his  stomach.  But, 
immediately  after  his  marriage  with  Miss  Santlow,* 
whose  wise  conduct,  beauty,  and  winning  behaviour  so 
wrought  upon  him  that  home  and  her  company  were 
his  chief  happiness,  he  entirely  contemn' d  the  folly  of 
drinking  out  of  season,  and  from  one  extreme  fell,  I 
think,  into  the  other  too  suddenly  ;  for  his  appetite  for 
food  had  no  abatement.  I  have  often  know  Mrs. 
Booth,  out  of  extreme  tenderness  to  him,  order  the 
table  to  be  removed,  for  fear  of  overcharging  his 
stomach."  Thus  may  we  leave  him  to  the  care  of 
the  watchful  Santlow. 

^  Miss  Santlow,  his  second  wife,  was  an  attractive  actress, 
once  a  ballet  dancer. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

I^OOKING  IN  AT  THK  OPKRA. 

ONE  of  the  most  disturbing  yet  popular  factors  in 
the  theatrical  life  of  Queen  Anne's  reign  was 
the  introduction,  on  an  ambitious  scale,  of  Italian 
opera.  It  proved  disturbing  because  it  filled  with  fear 
the  jealous  hearts  of  legitimate  actors  and  managers, 
who  saw  in  this  thoroughly  un-English  and  unusual 
form  of  amusement  a  dangerous  rival ;  it  was  popular 
since  it  gave  Londoners  something  melodious  and  quite 
different  from  the  dramatic  fare  the}^  were  generally 
regaled  with.  Theatre-goers,  even  the  best  of  them, 
like  novelty,  and  so  when  this  new-fangled  operatic 
entertainment  was  brought  into  conservative  Britain 
from  across  the  sea  it  became  quite  the  vogue,  much  to 
the  sorrow  of  so  critical  an  authority  as  Addison.  It 
was  a  sorrow,  too,  which  he  expressed  in  season  and 
out,  and  so  we  are  not  surprised  when  he  announces, 
in  the  Spectator,  his  design  ' '  to  deliver  down  to  poster- 
ity a  faithful  account  of  the  Italian  opera,  and  of  the 
gradual  progress  which  it  has  made  upon  the  English 
stage,"  for  ''there  is  no  question,"  he  thinks,  "but 
our  great-grandchildren  will  be  very  curious  to  know 

153 


154  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

the  reason  why  their  forefathers  used  to  sit  together 
like  an  audience  of  foreigners  in  their  own  country, 
and  to  hear  whole  plays  acted  before  them,  in  a 
tongue  which  they  did  not  understand." 

Short-sighted  Addison  !  The  great-grandchildren 
had  no  such  curiosity.  They  sat  together  themselves 
"like  an  audience  of  foreigners,"  and  their  own  de- 
scendants do  the  same  thing  now.  But  to  read  on 
further  from  the  Spectator  : 

''  Arsinoe  was  the  first  opera  that  gave  us  a  taste 
of  Italian  music.  The  great  success  this  opera  met 
with  produced  some  attempts  of  forming  pieces  upon 
Italian  plans,  which  should  give  a  more  natural  and 
reasonable  entertainment  than  what  can  be  met  with 
in  the  elaborate  trifles  of  that  nation.  This  alarmed 
the  poetasters  and  fiddlers  of  the  town,  who  were  used 
to  deal  in  a  more  ordinary  kind  of  ware  ;  and  therefore 
laid  down  an  established  rule,  which  is  received  as 
such  to  this  day,  *  That  nothing  is  capable  of  being 
well  set  to  music,  that  is  not  nonsense.'  This  maxim 
was  no  sooner  received,  but  we  immediately  fell  to 
translating  the  Italian  operas,  and  as  there  was  no 
great  danger  of  hurting  the  sense  of  those  extraordi- 
nary pieces,  our  authors  would  often  make  words  of 
their  own  which  were  entirely  foreign  to  the  meaning 
of  the  passages  they  pretended  to  translate  ;  their  chief 
care  being  to  make  the  numbers  of  the  English  verse 
answer  to  those  of  the  Italian,  that  both  of  them  might 
go  to  the  same  tune. ' ' 


LOOKING  I IV  AT  THE   OPERA,  I  55 

**  The  next  step  to  our  refinement,"  it  is  pointed  out, 
"  was  the  introducing  of  Italian  actors  into  our  opera, 
who  sung  their  parts  in  their  own  language,  at  the  same 
tune  that  our  countrymen  performed  theirs  in  our  native 
tongue.  The  King  or  hero  of  the  play  generally  spoke 
in  Italian,  and  his  slaves  answered  him  in  English. 
The  lover  frequently  made  his  court,  and  gained  the 
heart  of  his  princess,  in  a  language  she  did  not  under- 
sta^id.  One  would  have  thought  it  very  difficult  to 
have  carried  on  dialogues  after  this  manner  without  an 
interpreter  between  the  persons  that  conversed  to- 
gether, but  this  was  the  state  of  the  English  stage  for 
about  three  years." 

And  yet  the  very  posterity  for  whose  benefit  Addison 
was  writing,  is  so  hardened  to  the  anomalies  and  incoi:- 
sistencies  of  Italian  opera,  that  a  little  defect  like  this 
could  not  possibly  shock  it.  Nay,  within  the  past  two 
or  three  years  I  have  myself  witnessed  a  performance 
where  the  tenor  sang  in  French,  the  soprano  in  German, 
the  baritone  in  Italian,  and  the  other  participants  showed 
more  or  less  of  a  penchmit  for  the  English  mode  of  ex- 
pression. Yet  the  production  gave  unlimited  enjoy- 
ment, as  w^ell  it  might,  for  in  opera  the  music  's  the 
thing,  so  far  as  the  general  public  is  concerned,  and  a 
polyglot  incident  of  this  kind  passes  almost  unnoticed. 
What  matters  the  language,  if  the  voice  be  melodious. 
The  tenor  may  warble  in  Chinese  if  he  so  please,  and 
depict  the  most  profound  woe  in  the  liveliest  of  florid 
arias  ;  but  so  long  as  his  notes  have  power  to  charm  the 


156  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

ear  there  will  be  no  complaint.  Wagner  strove  to  inject 
a  certain  amount  of  realism  and  dramatic  unity  into  his 
works,  and  Verdi,  who  in  most  of  his  own  operas  was 
a  flagrant  offender  against  probability,  has  tried  the 
same  thing  in  Otello,  yet  for  all  that  our  venerable 
friends,  Trovaiore  and  the  perennial  Bohemian  Girl, — 
who  has  outgrown  her  girlhood  these  many  seasons, — 
still  exert  the  old  influence  on  the  music-lover. 

To  return  to  Addison.  "At  length,"  he  relates, 
'  *  the  audience  grew  tired  of  understanding  half  the 
opera  ;  and  therefore,  to  ease  themselves  entirely  of  the 
fatigue  of  thinking,  have  so  ordered  it  at  present,  that 
the  whole  opera  is  performed  in  an  unknown  tongue. 
We  no  longer  understand  the  language  of  our  own 
stage  ;  insomuch  that  I  have  often  been  afraid,  when 
I  have  seen  our  Italian  performers  chattering  in  the 
vehemence  of  action,  that  they  have  been  calling  us 
names,  and  abusing  us  among  themselves  ;  but  I  hope, 
since  we  do  put  such  entire  confidence  in  them,  they 
will  not  talk  against  us  before  our  faces,  though  they 
may  do  it  with  the  same  safety  as  if  it  were  behind  our 
backs.  In  the  meantime  I  cannot  forbear  thinking  how 
naturally  an  historian  who  writes  two  or  three  hundred 
years  hence,  and  does  not  know  the  taste  of  his  wise 
fore-fathers  will  make  the  following  reflection  :  '  In 
the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century,  the  Italian 
tongue  was  so  well  understood  in  England,  that  operas 
were  acted  on  the  public  stage  in  that  language.'  " 

The  Arsinoe  referred  to  in  this  essay  was  given  in 


LOOKING  W  AT  THE  OPERA,  I^^ 

its  Anglicized  form  in  1705,  and  the  advertisement  of 
the  performance  in  the  Daily  Courant  sets  forth  that 
there  will  be  presented  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  Drury 
I^ane,  "  a  new  Opera,  never  perform' d  before,  call'd 
Arsinoe,  Queen  of  Cyprus,  After  the  Italian  manner,  all 
Sung,  being  set  to  Musick  by  Mr.  Clayton.  With  sev- 
eral Entertainments  of  Dancing  by  Monsieur  I'Abbee, 
Monsieur  du  Ruel,  Monsieur  Cherrier,  Mrs.  Klford, 
Mrs.  du  Ruel,  Mrs.  Moss,  and  others.  And  the  famous 
Signora  Francisca  Margaretta  de  I'Kpine  will,  before 
the  Beginning  and  after  the  Ending  of  the  Opera,  per- 
form several  entertainments  of  singing  in  Italian  and 
English. ' '  It  was  further  announced  that  no  person 
should  *'  be  admittted  into  the  Boxes  or  Pitt  but  by  the 
Subscribers  Tickets,  to  be  delivered  at  Mrs.  White's 
Chocolate  House." 

During  the  season  Arsinoe  had  twenty-four  perform- 
ances, although  it  was  a  trashy  sort  of  compilation,  and 
it  was  followed,  the  succeeding  year,  by  Camilla.  This 
proved  to  be  a  much  more  meritorious  work,  and  was 
an  adaptation  from  the  Italian  of  Stampiglio  by  Gib- 
ber's old  friend,  Owen  Swiney.  The  bright  particular 
star  of  the  performance  happened  to  be  the  famous  Mrs. 
Tofts,  an  English  prima  donna,  w^ho  had  a  handsome 
presence,  a  fine  voice,  and  accomplished  methods.  Cib- 
ber  says  that  * '  whatever  defects  the  fashionably  skilful 
might  find  in  her  manner,  she  had,  in  the  general  sense 
of  her  spectators,  charms  that  few  of  the  most  learned 
singers  ever  arrived  at.     The  beauty  of  her  fine  propor- 


158  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

tioned  figure,  and  exquisitely  sweet  silver  tone  of  her 
voice,  with  that  peculiar  rapid  swiftness  of  her  throat, 
were  perfections  not  to  be  imitated  by  art  or  labor." 

Mrs.  Tofts  retired  from  the  stage  as  early  as  1709, 
having  amassed  a  modest  fortune  by  her  singing,  and 
at  the  very  height  of  her  beauty  and  popularity  married 
a  scholarly  and  wealthy  gentleman,  Joseph  Smith,  who 
was  afterwards  appointed  Knglish  consul  to  Venice. 
Her  reason  gave  way  about  this  time,  and  although  she 
recovered  for  a  season,  the  trouble  finally  returned  and 
she  died  many  years  later,  old,  forgotten,  and  demented. 
Steele  thus  dwells  upon  her  infirmity  in  the  Taller :  * 

'*  The  great  revolutions  of  this  nature  bring  to  my 
mind  the  distresses  of  the  unfortunate  Camilla^  who 
has  had  the  ill-luck  to  break  before  her  voice,  and  to 
disappear  at  a  time  when  her  beauty  was  in  the  height 
of  its  bloom.  This  lady  entered  so  thoroughly  into  the 
great  characters  she  acted,  that  when  she  had  finished 
her  part  she  could  not  think  of  retrenching  her  equi- 
page, but  would  appear  in  her  own  lodgings  with  the 
same  magnificence  that  she  did  upon  the  stage.  This 
greatness  of  soul  had  reduced  that  unhappy  princess  to 
an  involuntary  retirement,  where  she  now  passes  her 
time  among  the  woods  and  forests,  thinking  on  the 
crowns  and  sceptres  she  has  lost,  and  often  humming 
over  in  her  solitude, 

*  I  was  born  of  royal  race, 
Yet  must  wander  in  disgrace, 'f  etc. 

*  May  26,  1709.  t  A  quotation  from  Camilla. 


LOOKING  m  AT  THE   OPERA,  I  59 

But  for  fear  of  being  overheard,  and  her  quahty  known, 

she  usually  sings  it  in  Italian, 

'  Nacqui  al  regno,  nac  qui  al  trono 
E  per  sono 
I  Ventura  pastorella.'  " 

It  was  of  this  unfortunate  songstress  that  a  poet  of 
her  day  wrote  *  : 

"  Music  has  learn'd  the  discords  of  the  State, 
And  concerts  jar  with  Whig  and  Tory  hate. 
Here  Somerset  and  Devonshire  attend 
The  British  Tofts,  and  every  note  commend  ; 
To  native  merit  just,  and  pleas'd  to  see 
We've  Roman  arts,  from  Roman  bondage  free." 

The  more  sweetly  sang  such  charmers  as  Tofts  or 
handsome  De  I'Epine  the  more  anxious  and  indignant 
waxed  certain  watch-dogs  of  the  English  drama,  whose 
vivid  imaginations  pictured  the  total  extinction  of  the 
latter  through  the  introduction  of  the  hated  opera. 
Dennis,  in  an  Essay  on  the  Operas  after  the  Italian  Man- 
ner (1706)  complained  that  "  tho'  the  Reformation  and 
lyiberty  and  the  Drama  were  established  among  us  to- 
gether, and  have  flourished  among  us  together,  and 
have  still  been  like  to  have  fall'n  together,  notwith- 
standing all  this,  at  this  present  juncture,  when  lyiberty 
and  the  Reformation  are  in  the  utmost  danger,  we  are 
going  very  bravely  to  oppress  the  Drama,  in  order  to 
establish  the  luxurious  diversions  of  those  very  nations, 
from  whose  attempts  and  designs,  both  I^iberty  and  the 
Reformation  are  in  the  utmost  danger. ' ' 

*  Hughes,  author  of  The  Siege  of  Damascus, 


l6o  ECHOES  OF  THE  PL  A  Y HO  USE, 

But  despite  the  warnings  of  the  worthy  Dennis, 
opera,  *'  after  the  Italian  manner  "  continued  in  favor,  to 
the  great  danger,  in  his  own  mind,  of  Drama,  lyiberty, 
and  the  Reformation.  The  works  of  this  kind,  where 
the  English  and  Italian  elements  had  incongruous  and 
inartistic  combination,  came  to  an  end  with  Pyrrhus 
and  Demetrius,  a  translation  of  the  Pirro  e  Demetrio  of 
Adriano  Morselli.  Steele  writes  entertainingly  of  it  in 
the  Tatler  * : 

* '  lyCtters  from  the  Haymarket  inform  us  that  on  Sat- 
urday night  last  the  opera  of  Pyrrhus  and  Demetrius 
was  performed  with  great  applause.  This  intelligence 
is  not  very  acceptable  to  us  friends  of  the  theatre ; 
for  the  stage  being  an  entertainment  of  the  reason  and 
all  our  faculties,  this  way  of  being  pleased  with  the 
suspense  of  them  for  three  hours  together,  and  being 
given  up  to  the  shallow  satisfaction  of  the  ears  and 
eyes  only,  seems  to  arise  rather  from  the  degeneracy 
of  our  understanding  than  an  improvement  of  our  di- 
versions. That  the  understanding  has  no  part  in  the 
pleasure  is  evident  from  what  these  letters  very  posi- 
tively assert ;  to  wit,  that  a  great  part  of  the  perform- 
ance was  done  in  Italian  :  and  a  great  critic  fell  into 
fits  in  the  gallery  at  seeing  not  only  time  and  place,  but 
language  and  nations,  confused  in  most  incorrigible 
manner.  His  spleen  is  so  extremely  moved  on  this  oc- 
casion, that  he  is  going  to  publish  another  treatise 
against  the  introduction  of  operas,  which,  he  thinks, 
*  No.  4. 


LOOKING  IN  AT  THE  OPERA,  l6l 

has  already  inclined  us  to  thoughts  of  peace,  and,  if, 
tolerated,  must  infallibly  dispirit  us  from  carrying  on 
the  war.  He  has  communicated  his  scheme  to  the 
whole  room  and  declared  in  what  manner  things  of  this 
kind  were  first  introduced.  He  has  on  this  occasion 
considered  the  nature  of  sounds  in  general,  and  made 
a  very  elaborate  digression  upon  the  I^ondon  cries, 
wherein  he  was  shown,  from  reason  and  philosophy, 
why  oysters  are  cried,  card-matches  sung,  and  turnips 
and  all  other  vegetables  neither  cried,  sung  nor  said, 
but  sold  with  an  accent  and  tone  neither  natural  to 
man  nor  beast." 

At  the  time  that  Sir  Richard  wrote  this  he  was  an 
arch-enemy  to  the  style  of  production  which  he  thus 
satirized,  but  he  had  the  good  grace,  in  a  subsequent 
number  of  the  Tatler^  to  praise  one  of  the  principals 
in  the  cast,  the  favorite  Nicolini.  *'  For  my  own  part," 
he  admits,  ' '  I  was  fully  satisfied  with  the  sight  of  an 
actor,  who,  by  the  grace  and  propriety  of  his  action 
and  gesture  does  honor  to  the  human  figure.  Every- 
one will  imagine  I  mean  Signor  Nicolini,  who  sets  off 
the  character  he  bears  in  an  opera  by  his  action,  as 
much  as  he  does  the  words  of  it  by  his  voice.  Every 
limb  and  every  finger  contributes  to  the  part  he  acts, 
inasmuch  that  a  deaf  man  may  go  along  with  him  in 
the  sense  of  it.  There  is  scarce  a  beautiful  posture  in 
an  old  statue  which  he  does  not  plant  himself  in,  as 

*  No.  113. 


1 62  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

the  different  circumstances  of  the  story  give  occasion 
for  it." 

This  opera  singer,  who  was  known  in  private  life  as 
the  CavaHere  Nicolino  Grimaldi,  enjoyed  great  public 
favor,  in  the  days  when  the  Tatler  was  at  the  height  of 
its  prosperity.  He  came  from  Naples,  where  he  had 
decided  musical  prestige,  arriving  in  England  in  1708, 
appearing  first  in  this  very  Pyrrhus  and  Demetrius^  and 
returning  to  his  native  Italy  in  17 12. 

Of  course  Addison  has  something  to  say  about  him, 
as  for  instance,  in  the  fifth  issue  of  the  Spectator,  a 
portion  of  which  may  be  quoted  here  as  showing  up  the 
all-absorbing  question  of  opera  in  a  humorous  light  : 

"  An  opera  may  be  allowed  to  be  extravagantly 
lavish  in  its  decorations,  as  its  only  design  is  to  gratify 
the  senses,  and  keep  up  an  indolent  attention  in  the 
audience.  Common  sense,  however,  requires  that  there 
should  be  nothing  in  the  scenes  and  machines  which 
may  appear  childish  and  absurd.  How  would  the  wits 
of  King  Charles's  time  have  laughed  to  seeNicolini  ex- 
posed to  a  tempest  in  robes  of  ermine,  and  sailing  in 
an  open  boat  upon  a  sea  of  pasteboard  ?  What  a  field 
of  raillery  would  they  have  been  led  into,  had  they 
been  entertained  with  painted  dragons  spitting  wild- 
fire, enchanted  chariots  drawn  by  Flanders  mares,  and 
real  cascades  in  artificial  landscapes  ?  A  little  skill  in 
criticism  would  inform  us,  that  shadows  and  realities 
ought  not  to  be  mixed  together  in  the  same  piece  ;  and 
that  the  scenes  which  are  designed  as  the  representa- 


LOOKING  IN  AT  THE  OPERA.  1 63 

tions  of  nature  should  be  filled  with  resemblances,  and 
not  with  the  things  themselves.  If  one  would  repre- 
sent a  wide  champaign  country  filled  with  herds  and 
flocks,  it  would  be  ridiculous  to  dravv  the  country  only 
upon  the  scenes,  and  to  crowd  several  parts  of  the  stage 
with  sheep  and  oxen.  This  is  joining  together  incon- 
sistencies, and  making  the  decorations  partly  real,  and 
partly  imaginary.  I  would  recommend  what  I  have 
here  said  to  the  directors,  as  well  as  the  admirers,  of 
our  modern  opera. 

"As  I  was  walking  in  the  street  about  a  fortnight 
ago,  I  saw  an  ordinary  fellow  carrying  a  'cage  full  of 
little  birds  upon  his  shoulder  ;  and  as  I  was  wondering 
with  myself  what  use  he  would  put  them  to,  he  was 
met  very  luckily  by  an  acquaintance,  who  had  the 
same  curiosity.  Upon  his  asking  him  what  he  had 
upon  his  shoulders,  he  told  him  that  he  had  been  buy- 
ing Sparrows  for  the  opera.  Sparrows  for  the  opera, 
says  his  friend,  licking  his  lips.  What  !  are  they  to  be 
roasted?  No,  no,  says  the  other,  they  are  to  enter 
towards  the  end  of  the  first  act,  and  to  fly  about  the 
stage. 

''This  strange  dialogue  awakened  my  curiosity  so 
far,  that  I  immediately  bought  the  opera,  by  which 
means  I  perceived  the  sparrows  w^ere  to  act  the  part 
of  singing-birds  in  a  delightful  grove  ;  though,  upon 
a  nearer  inquiry,  I  found  the  Sparrows  put  the  same 
trick  upon  the  audience,  that  Sir  Martin  Mar-all^ 
*  In  Dryden's  comedy  of  that  name. 


164  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLA  YHOUSE. 

practised  upon  his  mistress  ;  for  though  they  flew  in 
sight,  the  music  preceded  from  a  concert  of  flageolets 
and  bird  calls,  which  were  planted  behind  the  scenes. 
At  the  same  time  I  made  this  discovery  :  I  found,  by 
the  discourse  of  the  actors,  that  there  were  great  designs 
on  foot  for  the  improvement  of  the  opera  ;  that  it  had 
been  proposed  to  break  down  a  part  of  the  wall,  and  to 
surprise  the  audience  with  a  party  of  a  hundred-horse, 
and  that  there  was  actually  a  project  of  bringing  the 
New  River  into  the  house,  to  be  employed  in  Jets 
d'eau  and  water-works.  This  project,  as  I  have  since 
heard,  is  postponed  till  the  summer  season  ;  when  it  is 
thought  that  the  coolness  which  proceeds  from  the 
fountains  and  cascades  will  be  more  acceptable  and  re- 
freshing to  people  of  quality. 

"  But  to  return  to  the  sparrows  :  there  have  been  so 
many  flights  of  them  let  loose  in  the  opera  that  it  is 
feared  the  house  will  never  get  rid  of  them  ;  and  that 
in  other  plays  they  make  their  entrance  in  very  wTong 
and  improper  scenes,  so  as  to  be  seen  flying  in  a  lady's 
bed-chamber,  or  perching  upon  a  king's  throne.  I  am 
credibly  informed  that  there  was  once  a  design  of  cast- 
ing into  an  opera  the  story  of  Whittington  and  his  cat ; 
and  that  in  order  to  do  it,  there  had  been  got  together 
a  great  quantity  of  mice  ;  but  Mr.  Rich,  the  proprietor 
of  the  playhouse,  very  prudently  considered  that  it 
would  be  impossible  for  the  cat  to  kill  them  all,  and 
that  consequently  the  princes  of  the  stage  might  be  as 


LOOKING  IN  AT  THE   OPERA.  165 

much  infested  with  mice,  as  the  prince  of  the  island 
was  before  the  cat's  arrival  upon  it;  for  which  reason 
he  would  not  permit  it  to  be  acted  in  his  house. 


"Before  I  dismiss  this  paper,  I  must  inform  my 
reader,  that  there  is  a  treaty  on  foot  between  London 
and  Wise  *  (who  will  be  appointed  gardeners  of  the 
playhouse)  to  furnish  the  opera  of  Rinaldo  and  Arniida 
with  an  orange-grove  ;  and  that  the  next  time  it  is 
acted,  the  singing  birds  will  be  personated  by  tom-tits  : 
the  undertakers  being  resolved  to  spare  neither  pains 
nor  money  for  the  gratification  of  the  audience. ' ' 

So  much  for  Addison's  banter.  Laugh  as  he  might 
at  the  inconsistencies  of  opera,  (the  laugh  was  all  the 
more  bitter  because  his  own  opera  of  Rosamund  had 
failed,)  the  people  went  on  patronizing  the  importation 
and  getting  wellnigh  hysterical  on  occasion,  over  the 
attractions  of  the  foreign  Nicolini  or  the  home-born 
Tofts.  Another  singer  who  inspired  enthusiasm  was 
Madame  de  I'Kpine,  a  dangerous  rival  to  the  latter, 
and  the  happy  possessor  of  a  lovely  voice.  She  came 
over  to  England  in  company  with  a  German  musician, 
Herr  Greber,  whereby  she  derived  her  rather  undigni- 
fied nickname.  "  Greber' s  Peg."  The  De  I'Kpine's 
personal  appearance  was  not  as  beautiful  as  her  pow- 
ers of  expression,  and  so  when  she  retired  from  the 
stage  in  17 18  and  married  Dr.  Pepusch,  the  musician, 

*  The  Queen's  gardeners. 


1 66  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

he  dubbed  her  "  Hecate,"  a  title  which  hardly  proved 
more  complimentary. 

This  prima  donna,  as  well  as  Nicolini,  and  Valentini, 
a  singer  of  considerable  note,  appeared  in  Almahide, 
which  is  only  remembered  now  because  it  was  the  first 
opera  to  be  given  in  London  entirely  in  Italian.  It 
soon  gave  way  to  Francesco  Maiicini's  Hydaspes,  a 
much  written  about  opera  which  became  quite  the 
fashion,  notwithstanding  that  its  merits,  musical  or 
otherwise,  were  hardly  prominent.  Its  chief  claim  on 
the  interest  of  posterity  lies  in  its  much  satirized  scene 
where  a  supposedly  dreadful  combat  takes  place  be- 
tween Hydaspes  and  a  lion.  Even  the  amount  of 
poetic  license  allowed  to  so  flexible  a  thing  as  an  Ital- 
ian libretto  has  limits,  and  in  this  case  the  bounds  of 
probability  were  so  grossly  exceeded  that  the  wits  of 
the  town  soon  had  everybody  laughing  at  an  encounter 
where  the  hero  had  the  pleasant  duty  of  throwing 
down  an  inoffensive  man  attired  in  a  lion's  skin,  and 
then  posing  before  the  audience  as  a  mighty  Nimrod. 

As  the  story  of  the  opera  goes,  Hydaspes  and  his 
brother,  Artaxerxes,  the  King  of  Persia,  are  both  in 
love  with  the  beautiful  Princess  Berenice.  The  King 
coming  to  the  convenient  conclusion  that  the  best  way 
to  dispose  of  a  dangerous  rival  is  to  have  him  nicely 
and  very  thoroughly  devoured  by  a  lion  (one  who 
has  n't  dined  for  a  day  or  two  preferred,)  orders  Hy- 
daspes to  be  thrown  into  the  public  arena,  where  the 
hungry  animal  will  do  the  rest.     So  when  the  third 


LOOKING  IN  AT  THE  OPERA,  1 67 

act  arrives,  we  see  the  unfortunate  but  always  virtu- 
ous young  man  brought  on  the  stage  closely  guarded 
by  soldiers,  while  the  Persians  fill  the  royal  amphi- 
theatre, waiting  eagerly  for  the  coming  sport. 

Of  course  Berenice  loves  this  noble  specimen  of  pro- 
spective mince-meat,  and,  quite  naturally,  she  is  on 
hand  to  have  a  front-row  view  of  the  little  divertisement 
so  thoughtfully  prepared  by  the  fraternal  Artaxerxes. 

"For  thee,  my  life,  I  die,"  wails  the  hero  (in 
Italian)  as  he  cordially  greets  his  beloved. 

"  Oh,  my  soul !  a  long  farewell !  "  continues  Berenice 
with  customary  Italian-opera  cheerfulness. 

"Oh,  Berenice  !  my  love  !  "  answers  her  admirer. 

"  Hydaspes  !  "  she  lisps,  and  thereupon  both  ex- 
claim placidly  :     '  *  Oh  !  farewell ! ' ' 

This  eminently  proper  dialogue  is  evidently  too 
much  for  the  impatient  populace,  for  the  stage  direc- 
tions now  read  : 

"  Berenice  places  herself  on  the  steps  of  the  amphi- 
theatre, with  Arbaces  and  the  soldiers  :  Hydaspes  re- 
maining alone  in  the  arena  ;  after  which  a  lion  comes 
out  of  his  den,  which,  not  yet  seeing  Hydaspes,  stalks 
about  looking  at  the  spectators." 

This  is  an  accommodating  sort  of  lion  ;  he  kindly 
resolves  to  give  the  hero  time  for  a  farewell  sentiment, 
and  so  we  find  Hydaspes  crying  out : 

"  Why  dost  thou,  horrid  monster  pause  ? 
Come  on  ;  now  sate  thy  ravenous  jaws  ; 
This  naked  bosom  tear  : 


1 68  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

But  thou  within  shalt  find  a  heart 
Guarded  by  flames  will  make  thee  start, 
And  turn  thy  rage  to  fear." 

Then  Berenice  comes  forward,  says  something  about 
**  Ah,  miserable  me  !  I  die  !  "and  straightway  goes  off 
into  a  dead  faint,  in  true  feminine  fashion.  However, 
things  soon  take  a  cheerful  turn  for  everybody  except- 
ing Artaxerxes  2i\\A  the  lion.  ''  Hydaspes,  grasping 
the  lion's  neck  with  his  arms,  strangles  him,  when 
falling  at  last  on  the  ground,  he  sets  his  foot  on  his 
neck  in  sign  of  victory" — which,  though  a  trifle  ob- 
scure in  expression,  means  that  as  an  animal  throttler 
Berenice' s  cher  ami  is  a  decided  success. 

Hydaspes  now  feels  so  valiant'  that  he  asks : 

**  Is  there  another  monster  yet 
Remains  for  me  t' encounter? 
No  force  that 's  new 
This  fear  can  e'er  subdue  !  " 

But  we  may  leave  the  resuscitation  of  Berenice  to  the 
imagination.  The  whole  affair  was,  no  doubt,  su- 
premely idiotic,  for,  to  quote  George  Hogarth,*  ''the 
exhibition  of  Nicolini,  alternately  vaporing  and  ges- 
ticulating to  a  poor  biped  in  a  lion's  skin,  then  breath- 
ing a  love- tale  in  the  pseudo-monster's  ear,  and  at  last 
fairly  throttling  him  on  the  stage,  must  have  been  ludi- 
crous in  the  extreme." 

The  humor  of  the  situation  was  sportively  dwelt  upon 
in  the  Spectator  (number  13),  where  Addison  writes  : 

*  Memoirs  of  the  Musical  Drama, 


LOOKING  IN  AT  THE   OPERA.  1 69 

"  There  is  nothing  that  of  late  years  has  afforded 
matter  of  greater  amusement  to  the  town  than  Signior 
Nicolini's  combat  with  a  lion  in  the  Haymarket,  which 
has  been  very  often  exhibited  to  the  general  satisfaction 
of  most  of  the  nobility  and  gentry  in  the  kingdom  of 
Great  Britain.  Upon  the  first  rumor  of  this  intended 
combat,  it  was  confidently  affirmed,  and  is  still  believed, 
by  many  in  both  galleries,  that  there  would  be  a  tame 
lion  sent  from  the  Tower  every  opera  night,  in  order  to 
be  killed  by  Hydaspes ;  this  report,  though  altogether 
groundless,  so  universally  prevailed  in  the  upper  regions 
of  the  playhouse,  that  some  of  the  most  refined  poli- 
ticians in  those  parts  of  the  audience,  gave  it  out  in 
whispers  that  the  lion  was  a  cousin-german  of  the  tiger 
who  made  his  appearance  in  King  William's  days,  and 
that  the  stage  would  be  supplied  with  lions  at  the  pub- 
lic expense,  during  the  whole  session.  Many  likewise 
were  the  conjectures  of  the  treatment  which  this  lion 
was  to  meet  with  from  the  hands  of  Signior  Nicolini ; 
some  supposed  that  he  was  to  subdue  him  in  recitative, 
as  Orpheus  used  to  serve  the  wild  beasts  in  his  time,  and 
afterwards  to  knock  him  on  the  head  ;  some  fancied 
that  the  lion  would  not  pretend  to  lay  his  paws  upon 
the  hero,  b}^  reason  of  the  received  opinion,  that  a  lion 
will  not  hurt  a  virgin.  Several,  who  pretended  to  have 
seen  the  opera  in  Italy,  had  informed  their  friends,  that 
the  lion  was  to  act  a  part  in  High  Dutch,  and  roar  twice 
or  thrice  to  a  thoroughbass  before  he  fell  at  the  feet  of 
Hydaspes. ' ' 


I70  ECHOES    OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

So  Addison  sets  himself  the  task  of  finding  out  the 
identity  of  the  ferocious  monster.  There  were  three 
lions  in  all,  he  learns.  The  first  was  a  candle-snuffer, 
**  who  being  a  fellow  of  a  testy,  choleric  temperament, 
overdid  his  part  and  would  not  suffer  himself  to  be 
killed  so  easily  as  he  ought  to  have  done. ' '  Next  came 
a  tailor  by  trade,  *'  who  belonged  to  the  playhouse  and 
had  the  character  of  a  mild  and  peaceable  man  in  his 
profession.  If  the  former  was  too  furious,  this  was  too 
sheepish  for  his  part ;  insomuch  that  after  a  short  mod- 
est walk  upon  the  stage,  he  would  fall  at  the  first  touch 
of  Hydaspes,  without  grappling  with  him,  and  giving 
him  an  opportunity  of  showing  his  variety  of  Italian 
trips.  It  is  said,  indeed,  that  he  once  gave  him  a  rip 
in  his  flesh  color  doublet ;  but  this  was  only  to  make 
work  for  himself  in  his  private  character  of  a  tailor. ' ' 

The  third  lion  was  much  more  acceptable  to  all  con- 
cerned. He  was  "  a  country  gentleman,  who  does  it 
for  his  diversion,  but  desires  his  name  may  be  concealed. 
He  says,  very  handsomely,  in  his  own  excuse,  that  he 
does  not  act  for  gain  ;  that  he  indulges  an  innocent 
pleasure  in  it ;  and  that  it  is  better  to  pass  away  an 
evening  in  this  manner,  than  in  gaming  and  drinking  ; 
but  at  the  same  time  says,  with  a  very  agreeable  raillery 
upon  himself,  that  if  his  name  should  be  known  the 
ill-natured  world  might  call  him,  '  the  ass  in  the  lion's 
skin.'  " 

Operatic  art  in  England  was  given  a  remarkable  im- 
petus by  the  arrival  of  Handel  during  the  latter  part  of 


LOOKING  IN  AT  THE   OPERA.  171 

17 10.  Though  but  a  young  man  he  had  already  be- 
come celebrated  as  a  composer,  and  no  sooner  was  he 
in  lyondon  than  Aaron  Hill,  who  then  managed  the 
Haymarket  Theatre,  asked  him  to  wTite  an  opera  for 
production  at  that  house.  The  arrangements  were  per- 
fected, the  music  was  composed  within  a  fortnight  and 
the  librettist,  the  poet  Rossi,  had  a  hard  time  to  finish 
his  own  work  so  as  to  keep  pace  with  the  rapid  Handel. 
The  opera  was  entitled  Rinaldo  and  when  produced  met 
with  the  greatest  success.  Subsequently  another  of  his 
compositions,  //  Pastor  Fido,  was  brought  out,  and  in 
17 13  his  Theseus  was  presented.  In  the  Daily  Courant 
of  January  24th  it  is  announced  by  the  management  of 
the  Haymarket  that : 

"This  present  Saturday  the  24th  of  January,  the 
Opera  of  Theseus  composed  by  Mr.  Handel  will  be 
represented  in  its  Perfection,  that  is  to  say  with  all  the 
Scenes,  Decorations,  Flights  and  Machines.  The  Per- 
formers are  much  concerned  that  they  did  not  give  the 
Nobility  and  Gentry  all  the  Satisfaction  they  could  have 
wished,  when  they  represented  it  on  Wednesday  last, 
having  been  hindered  by  some  unforseen  Accidents,  at 
that  time  insurmountable." 

But  what  were  the  successes  of  the  inane  Hydaspes 
or  the  classic,  dignified  Rinaldo  as  compared  to  that  of 
the  Beggars'  Opera,  a  work  illustrating  the  now  recog- 
nized managerial  axiom  that  it  is  useless  to  prophecy 
as  to  the  fate  of  a  production.  In  one  of  those  inimita- 
ble conversations  photographed  for  us  by  the  obliging 


172  ECHOES  OF  THE  PI  A  Y HO  USE. 

Boswell,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  says  :  "  The  Beggars' 
Opera  affords  a  proof  how  strangely  people  will  differ 
in  opinion  about  a  literary  performance.  Burke  thinks 
it  has  no  merit" — to  which  the  sage  Johnson  replies  : 
**  It  was  refused  by  one  of  the  houses  ;  but  I  should 
have  thought  it  would  succeed,  not  from  any  great  ex- 
cellence in  the  writing  but  from  the  novelty  and  the 
general  spirit  and  gaiety  of  the  piece,  which  keeps  the 
audience  always  attentive,  and  dismisses  them  in  good 
humor." 

But  the  circumstances  attending  the  introduction  of 
the  piece  were  discouraging  up  to  the  moment  of  its 
performance.  It  was  written  by  the  poet  Gay,  who 
provided  for  it  a  story  of  low-life  that  seemed  anything 
but  attractive  on  a  first  perusal  of  the  libretto,  and  the 
music  was  nothing  more  or  less  than  an  adaptation,  by 
Dr.  Pepusch,  of  a  number  of  national  ditties.  When 
Gay  went  to  his  patron,  the  Duke  of  Queensbury,  to 
get  an  opinion  of  the  affair,  the  noble  critic  remarked  : 
"  This  is  a  very  odd  thing,  Gay  ;  it  is  either  a  very 
good  thing  or  a  bad  thing."  So  experienced  a  mana- 
ger as  Gibber  utterly  refused  to  produce  it,  and  when 
Rich  *  consented  to  put  it  on  at  his  house  in  I^incoln's 
Inn  Fields  (1727)  it  was  by  no  means  in  an  enthusias- 
tic frame  of  mind  that  he  yielded.  To  add  to  the  trials 
of  the  author,  Quin  refused  to  take  the  part  of  Macheath, 

*  John  Rich  opened  the  theatre  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  in 
December,  17 14,  under  letters-patent  originally  granted  by  Char- 
les II.,  and  restored  by  George  I. 


LOOKING  IN  AT  THE  OPERA.  1 73 

because  he  had  so  poor  an  opinion  of  the  opera,  and  it 
was  assigned  to  Thomas  Walker,  one  of  the  most  en- 
tertaining, jovial,  and  hard-drinking  actors  of  his  time. 
The  leading  feminine  role  of  Polly  was  given  to  a  Miss 
Fenton  *  who  was  handsome,  to  be  sure,  but  whose 
chief  claim  to  Mr.  Rich's  regard  seems  to  have  been 
her  offer  to  accept  the  modest  salary  of  fifteen  shillings 
a  week.  In  fact,  all  the  preparations  were  made  on  the 
most  economical  basis,  as  though  no  extravagance  could 
be  justified  in  connection  with  pre-doomed  failure. 

The  looked-for  disaster  never  came.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  Beggars'  Opera  passed  into  theatrical  history 
as  one  of  the  greatest  of  successes  ;  the  town  went  wild 
over  it,  and  Rich  made  a  fortune  out  of  the  enterprise. 
To  be  sure,  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  and  many 
other  pious  persons  objected  to  the  work  on  the  ground 
that  its  story,  dealing,  as  it  did,  with  highwaymen  and 
other  lawless  characters,  was  calculated  to  foster  im- 
morality. This  far-fetched  argument  troubled  the  au- 
diences not  one  bit ;  they  found  in  the  piece  a  light, 
agreeable  entertainment  just  to  their  liking,  and  always 
went  away  from  the  performance  in  that  good  hu- 
mor to  which  Dr.  Johnson  referred  many  years  later. 
Whether  they  would  have  extracted  as  much  enjoy- 
ment from  Polly,  the  second  part  which  Gay  wrote  for 

*  Lavinia  Fenton  became  famous  in  a  day  by  her  appearance 
as  Polly.  She  was  a  witty,  charming  woman  who  had  a  re- 
markable career,  which  included  her  marriage  to  the  Duke  of 
Bolton. 


174  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

the  Beggars'  Opera,  is  doubtful,  but  there  was  never  a 
chance  for  comparison,  as  the  lyord  Chamberlain  re- 
fused to  license  the  sequel. 

Everything  was  in  readiness  for  the  introduction  of 
Polly  when  the  decision  was  announced.  Rich  and 
Gay  were  deeply  disappointed  and  mortified  at  so  un- 
expected a  blow.  Some  uncharitable  enemies  of  Gib- 
ber charged  that  the  refusal  of  a  license  was  due  to  his 
jealousy  of  Gay  and  his  own  ambition  to  bring  out  a 
piece  on  the  order  of  the  Beggars'  Opera,  and  so  justice 
demands  that  we  give  CoUey  a  hearing  on  the  subject. 

* '  After  the  vast  success  of  that  new  species  of  dra- 
matic poetry,"  he  says,  "  the  year  following  I  was  so 
stupid  as  to  attempt  something  of  the  same  kind,  upon 
a  quite  diflferent  foundation,  that  of  recommending  vir- 
tue, and  innocence  ;  which  I  ignorantly  thought  might 
not  have  a  less  pretence  to  favor,  than  setting  great- 
ness and  authority  in  a  contemptible,  and  the  most  vul- 
gar vice  and  wickedness,  in  an  amiable  light.  But 
behold  how  fondly  I  was  mistaken  !  Love  in  a  Riddle 
(for  so  my  new-fangled  performance  was  called)  was  as 
vilely  damn'd  and  hooted  at  as  so  vain  a  presumption, 
in  the  idle  cause  of  virtue,  could  deserve." 

Gibber  then  goes  on  to  say  how  it  came  about  that 
he  was  falsely  accused  of  being  privy  to  the  suppression 
of  Polly,  how  many  of  his  friends  got  out  of  humor  with 
him  in  consequence,  and  how  Love  in  a  Riddle  suffered 
such  dire  failure  because  of  the  popular  belief  in  the 
unjust  rumor.     He  brought  out  his  opera  without  con- 


LOOKING  m  AT  THE  OPERA.  1 75 

sidering  that  '  *  from  the  security  of  a  full  pit  dunces 
might  be  criticks,  cowards  valiant,  and  prentices  gen- 
tlemen." 

' '  Whether  any  such  were  concerned  in  the  murder 
of  my  play,  I  am  not  certain  ;  for  I  never  endeavor' d 
to  discover  any  one  of  its  assassins ;  I  cannot  afford 
them  a  milder  name,  from  their  unmanly  manner  of 
destroying  it.  Had  it  been  heard,  they  might  have  left 
me  nothing  to  say  to  them.  'Tis  true,  it  faintly  held 
up  its  wounded  head  a  second  da)^  and  would  have 
spoke  for  mercy,  but  was  not  suffered.  Not  even  the 
presence  of  a  Royal  Heir-apparent  could  protect  it. 
But  then  I  was  reduced  to  be  serious  with  them  ;  their 
clamor,  then,  became  an  insolence,  which  I  thought  it 
my  duty,  by  the  sacrifice  of  any  interest  of  my  own, 
to  put  an  end  to.  I  therefore  quitted  the  actor  for  the 
author,  and  stepping  forward  to  the  pit,  told  them. 
That  since  I  found  they  were  not  inclined  that  this  play 
should  go  forward^  I  gave  them  my  word  that  after  this 
night  it  should  never  be  acted  again  :  but  that^  in  the 
meantime  I  hop'd  they  would  consider  in  whose  presence 
they  were^  and  for  that  reason^  at  leasts  would  suspend 
what  further  marks  of  their  displeasure  they  might 
imagine  I  had  deserved.  At  this  there  was  a  dead 
silence ;  and,  after  some  little  pause,  a  few  civiliz'd 
hands  signify' d  their  approbation.  When  the  play 
went  on  I  observ'd  about  a  dozen  persons,  of  no  extra- 
ordinary appearance,  sullenly  walk'd  out  of  the  pit. 
After  which,  every  scene  of  it,   while  uninterrupted, 


176  ECHOES  OF  THE  PL  A  Y HO  USE, 

met  with  more  applause  than  my  best  hopes  had  ex- 
pected. But  it  came  too  late  :  Peace  to  its  Manes  !  I 
had  given  my  word  it  should  fall,  and  I  kept  it  by 
giving  out  another  play  for  the  next  day,  though  I 
knew  the  boxes  were  all  let  for  the  same  again." 

"Peace  to  its  Manes'''  indeed.  It  was  doubtless 
poor  stuff,  this  Love  in  a  Riddle,  but  good  or  bad,  the 
public  had  resolved  to  have  none  of  it,  and  there  was 
an  end  to  the  matter.  But  the  Beggar's  Opera  con- 
tinued popular  for  many  a  day,  and  we  can  imagine  the 
prosperous,  illiterate  John  Rich,  whom  the  success  of  the 
piece  lifted  from  comparative  poverty  to  affluence,  tell- 
ing his  friends  how  he  had  been  one  of  the  first  to  dis- 
cover its  merits.  Even  managers  are  forgetful,  and 
Rich  was  not  less  so  than  others  of  the  same  ilk. 
He  was  the  son  of  Christopher  Rich,  and  for  many 
years  enjoyed  great  celebrity  as  an  effective  pantomim- 
ist ;  indeed  he  seems  to  have  been  the  first  manager  to 
put  pantomine  on  a  popular  and  respectable  footing  on 
the  English  stage.  His  Harlequins  proved  so  attrac- 
tive that  he  often  drew  the  attention  of  play-goers  from 
the  legitimate  drama,  and,  in  his  own  curious  way  he 
even  proved  a  rival  of  Garrick,  who  wrote  of  him  : 

"  When  Ivun*  appeared,  with  matchless  art  and  whim, 
He  gave  the  power  of  speech  to  every  limb  ; 
Tho'  mask'd  and  mute  convey'd  his  quick  intent. 
And  told  in  frolic  gestures  what  he  meant : 
But  now  the  motley  coat  and  sword  of  wood 
Require  a  tongue  to  make  them  understood." 
*Rich  used  to  appear  in  pantomime  under  the  name  of  Mr.  Ivun. 


LOOKING  IN  AT  THE  OPERA.  1 77 

His  pantomime  was,  indeed,  faultless,  but  not  so  his 
grammar  or  his  general  education.  One  of  his  peculi- 
arities was  to  call  everybody  ' '  Mister, ' '  and  this  habit 
once  brought  forth  an  unkind  jest  from  the  coarsest 
and  most  unkind  of  men,  the  mimic  Foote.  The  latter 
on  being  addressed  several  times  as  "Mister,"  took 
Rich  to  task  for  his  bad  manners  in  not  adding  *  *  Foote. ' ' 
"  Don't  be  angry,"  said  the  manager,  "fori  sometimes 
forget  my  own  name."  "That's  extraordinary," 
replied  Foote,  "for  though  I  knew  you  could  not  write 
it,  I  did  not  suppose  you  could  forget  it. ' ' 


CHAPTER  IX. 

AN  ACTOR  OF  THK   OI,D  SCHOOI,. 

WK  oftetr  hear  the  elderly  play-goer  speak  lov- 
ingly of  the  * '  actors  of  the  old  school,"  deplor- 
ing the  fact  that  they  are  passing  away,  and  sighing 
because  their  successors  have  not  inherited  all  their 
excellences.  "There's  poor  So  and  So,"  he  says 
sadly,  "  he  's  almost  the  last  one  left  ;  how  I  wish  some 
of  the  younger  generation  of  players  would  take  pat- 
tern by  him."  And  then  he  adds,  mournfully  :  "The 
palmy  days  of  the  drama  are  done  for." 

Dear  old  croaker  !  Don't  you  know  that  it  has  been 
the  fashion  for  the  past  two  centuries  to  talk  about 
those  "palmy  days,"  and  to  look  upon  the  "old 
school"  as  something  never  to  return.  Nay,  those 
among  us  who  are  now  young  will  grow  eloquent, 
thirty  years  hence,  over  favorites  of  to-day,  and  com- 
plain that  the  theatre  is  no  longer  what  it  was.  It  will 
always  be  thus,  venerable  sir,  and  so  take  heart  of 
grace,  for  the  "old  school,"  like  the  poor,  is  sure  to  be 
ever  with  us.  If  you  are  skeptical,  read  of  Quin,  who 
was  spoken  of,  in  the  autumn  of  his  life,  as  one  of  the 
last   of  the    "old  school,"   and  who  was,    no  doubt, 

178 


JAMES  QUIN. 

FROM   THE   PAINTING   BY    HUDSON. 


AN  ACTOR  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL,  1 79 

regarded  by  some  of  his  contemporaries  as  a  melan- 
choly survivor  of  all  that  was  best  in  the  drama.  He 
has  been  dead  for  more  than  a  century,  but  many  who 
came  after  him  have  had  the  same  sort  of  honor  paid 
them  b}^  admirers  who  could  see  no  health  in  any  but 
the  theatrical  heroes  of  their  youth. 

lyike  some  other  by-gone  celebrities,  Quin  would  pro- 
bably be  regarded  as  a  very  bad  actor,  could  he  be 
resuscitated  for  the  amusement  of  a  modern  audience. 
They?;?  de  siecle  critics  would  write  him  down  as  a  * '  ran- 
ter," and  probably  dispose  of  his  performance  much 
after  their  fashion  of  dealing  with  the  average  second- 
rate  Shakesperian  spouter.  Yet  for  all  that  he  was 
one  of  the  great  players  of  his  time,  even  though 
Churchill  did  say  of  him  : 

"  In  fancied  scenes,  as  in  life's  real  plan, 
He  could  not  for  a  moment  sink  the  man. 
In  whatever  cast  his  character  was  laid, 
Self  still,  like  oil,  upon  the  surface  played. 
Nature,  in  spite  of  all.  his  skill,  crept  in  ; 
Horatio,  Dorax,  FalstafF— still 't  was  Quin." 

James  Quin  was  born  in  1693,  ^nd  his  father  is  said 
to  have  been  an  English  gentleman  who  settled  in  Ire- 
land several  years  after  this  event.  When  the  youth 
had  arrived  at  what  was  supposed  to  be  the  age  of  dis- 
cretion he  was  sent  off  to  London  to  study  for  the  bar, 
but  the  leading  of  a  gay  life  and  the  reading  of  Shake- 
speare proved  much  more  to  James's  liking,  than  the 
perusual  of  musty  law  books.     His  father  dying  about 


i8q  echoes  of  the  playhouse, 

this  time,  and  the  parental  legacy  not  being  very  large, 
the  presumable  law  student  made  up  his  mind  to  go 
on  the  stage,  a  conclusion  to  which  he  was  doubtless 
influenced  by  the  intimacy  he  had  formed  with  Booth, 
Wilks,  and  other  well-known  actors.  But  in  the  mean- 
time he  had  contracted  another  intimacy  by  no  means 
so  creditable  ;  a  woollen  draper's  wife  was  the  heroine 
of  it,  and  a  subsequent  encounter  with  tlie  indignant 
husband  brought  about  such  a  scandal  that  young 
Quin  was  glad  to  take  temporary  refuge  in  Ireland, 
where  he  appears  to  have  made  his  first  essay  on  the 
boards. 

However,  the  woollen  draper  accommodatingly  died  ; 
the  affaire  d' amour  wsiS  hushed  up,  and  the  aspirant 
returned  to  I^ondon,  to  appear  at  Drury  I^ane  in  17 15. 
For  some  time  he  seems  to  have  remained  * '  the  mere 
scene  drudge,  the  faggot  of  the  drama,"  assuming 
secondary  parts,  and  making  little  headway  except  in 
obtaining  a  deal  of  valuable  experience.  It  was  not 
until  1720,  we  are  told,  that  he  was  able  to  properly 
display  his  talents,  and  this  was  after  he  had  left 
Drury  I^ane  to  join  Rich's  forces. 

* '  Upon  the  revival  of  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 
at  lyincoln's  Inn  Fields,  of  which  the  late  Mr.  Rich 
was  the  manager,  there  was  no  one  in  the  whole  com- 
pany who  would  undertake  the  part  of  Falstaff ;  Rich 
was,  therefore,  inclined  to  give  up  all  thought  of  repre- 
senting it,  when  Quin,  happening  to  come  in  his  way, 
said,  if  he  pleased  he  would  attempt  it.     *  Hem  !  '  said 


Aisr  ACTOR   OF  THE   OLD   SCHOOL.  l8l 

Rich,  taking  a  pinch  of  snufF,  '  You  attempt  Falstaff! 
Why  (hem  !) — You  might  as  well  think  of  acting  Cato 
after  Booth.  The  character  of  Falstaff,  young  man,  is 
quite  another  character  from  what  you  think  '  (taking 
another  pinch  of  snuff)  ; '  it  is  not  a  snivelling  part,  that 
— that — in  short,  that  any  one  can  do.  There  is  not  a 
man  among  you  that  has  any  idea  of  the  part  but  my- 
self. It  is  quite  out  of  your  walk.  No,  never  think 
of  Falstaff— uitY&c  think  of  Falstaff— \t  is  quite — quite 
out  of  your  walk,  indeed,  young  man.'  "  * 

Quin  had  a  firm  friend  in  Lacy  Ryan,  that  delightful 
exponent  of  tragic  lovers  or  fine  gentlemen  in  comedy, 
and  through  Ryan's  influence  Rich  was  persuaded  to 
give  the  bold  young  fellow  a  trial.  "  The  first  night 
of  his  appearance  in  this  character  he  surprised  and 
astonished  the  audience  ;  no  actor  before  ever  entered 
into  the  spirit  of  the  author,  and  it  seemed  as  if  Shake- 
speare had  by  intuition  drawn  the  knight  so  long  be- 
fore for  Quin  only  to  represent.  The  just  applause  he 
met  with  upon  this  occasion  is  incredible  ;  continued 
clappings  and  peals  of  laughter,  in  some  measure  in- 
terrupted the  representation,  though  it  was  impossible 
that  any  regularity  whatever  could  have  more  in- 
creased the  mirth  or  excited  the  approbation  of  the 
audience." 

This  was  the  beginning  of  a  success  that,  with  one 
or  two  interruptions,  was  to  last  until  the  powers  of 
the  younger  and  more  natural  Garrick  would  put  a 
*  The  Life  of  Mr,  James  Quin^  Comedian. 


1 82  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

heavy  extinguisher  on  the  histrionic  fire  of  the  senten- 
tious James.  An  earlier  interruption  which  threatened 
to  extinguish  that  fire  before  it  had  been  weUnigh 
kindled,  was  the  unfortunate  affair  which  involved 
Quin  in  involuntary  manslaughter. 

He  and  another  actor,  William  Bowen,  got  into  an 
altercation  one  April  afternoon  (1718)  at  the  Fleece 
Tavern,  in  Cornhill,  after  wine  had  been  flowing 
pretty  freely  and  the  conversation  had  drifted  from 
good-natured  banter  into  a  somewhat  less  pleasant 
channel.  Mr.  Bowen  taunted  Quin  with  having  acted 
Tamerlane  in  a  slipshod  manner,  and  the  latter  replied 
that  Bowen  "  had  no  great  occasion  to  value  himself 
for  his  performance,  in  that  Mr.  Johnson,  who  had 
acted  it  but  seldom,  acted  the  part  oi  Jacomo  in  The 
Libertine  as  well  as  he  [Bowen]  who  had  acted  it 
often."*  Then  the  talk  grew  warmer,  Quin  told  a 
story  that  reflected  on  his  friend's  honor,  and  finally 
Bowen  rose  up  angrily,  paid  his  reckoning  and  left  the 
tavern,  with  the  remark  that  he  would  not  stay  in  such 
company  any  longer. 

Quin,  as  he  afterward  testified  in  his  own  defence, 
was  sent  for,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  by  Bowen, 
who  insisted,  strangely  enough,  upon  drinking  a  pint 
of  wine  with  him.  So  after  some  discussion,  the  two 
actors  finally  ended  by  going  to  the  Pope's  Head 
Tavern,  where,  being  shown  a  room,  they  called  for 
something  to  drink.  The  wine  was  brought,  and  each 
*  From  a  record  of  Quin's  trial. 


AN  ACTOR   OF  THE   OLD   SCHOOL.  1 83 

of  them  had  taken  a  glass,  when  suddenly  Bowen  rose 
and  barricaded  the  door  with  two  chairs,  at  the  same 
time  telling  his  companion  that  *'he  had  injured  him 
past  verbal  reparation,  and  nothing  but  fighting  should 
make  him  amends."  Thereupon,  as  Quin  himself  re- 
lated, "  he  argued  with  him,  endeavoring  to  dissuade 
him,  but  Mr.  Bowen  bid  him  not  trifle  with  him.  That 
he  then  desired  Mr.  Bowen  again  to  defer  his  resentment 
and  sleep  upon  it,  and  if  he  could  not  come  into  temper 
b}^  the  next  day,  he  would  meet  him  and  ask  his  par- 
don in  the  same  company  that  he  had  injured  him  in  ; 
but  Mr.  Bowen  bid  him  again  not  to  trifle  with  him, 
for  that  he  [Quin]  had  injured  him  in  his  reputation, 
which  he  was  resolved  never  to  survive  and  would  now 
do  himself  justice,  and  drawing  his  sword  in  a  violent 
passion,  swore  if  he  did  not  draw  he  would  run  him 
through,  upon  which  he  [Quin]  was  obliged  to  draw 
in  his  own  defence."  In  the  struggle  Bowen*  was 
mortally  wounded  and  as  the  whole  evidence  went  to 
show  that  his  death  was  due  to  his  own  rashness  Quin 
got  off  with  a  conviction  for  manslaughter,  which 
practically  amounted  to  an  acquittal. 

Several  seasons  later  (1721)  the  actor  was  to  figure  in 
another  exciting  episode,  although  one  of  a  far  differ- 
ent character.  *' A  certain  noble  earl,  who  was  said 
(and  with  some  degree  of  certainty,  as  he  drank  usque- 
baugh constantly  at  his  waking)  to  have  been  in  a  state 

*  Bowen  was  evidently  half  crazy  at  the  time  from  his  numer- 
ous libations. 


1 84  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

of  intoxication  for  six  years,  was  behind  the  scenes  (at 
lyincoln's  Inn  Fields)  at  the  close  of  a  comedy,  and, 
seeing  one  of  his  companions  on  the  other  side  among 
the  performers,  crossed  the  stage  and  was  accord- 
ingly hissed  by  the  audience.  Mr.  Rich  was  on  the 
side  the  noble  earl  came  over  to,  and  on  hearing  the 
uproar  in  the  house  at  such  an  irregularity,  the  man- 
ager said,  '  I  hope  your  lordship  will  not  take  it  ill  if  I 
give  orders  to  the  stage  door  keeper  not  to  admit  you 
any  more,'  On  his  saying  that,  his  lordship  saluted 
Mr.  Rich  with  a  slap  on  the  face,  which  he  immediately 
returned,  and,  his  lordship's  face  being  round  and  fat, 
made  his  cheek  ring  with  the  force  of  it.  Upon  this 
spirited  return  my  lord's  drunken  companions  col- 
lected themselves  directly,  and  Mr.  Rich  was  to  be  put 
to  death  ;  but  Quin,  Ryan,  Walker,  etc.  stood  forth  in 
the  defence  of  the  manager,  and  a  grand  scuffle  ensued, 
by  which  the  gentlemen  were  all  drove  out  at  the  stage 
door  into  the  street.  They  then  sallied  into  the  boxes, 
with  their  swords  drawn,  and  broke  the  scenes,  cut 
the  hangings,  which  were  gilt  leather,  finely  painted, 
and  continued  the  riot  until  Mr.  Quin  came  round  with 
a  constable  and  watchmen,  and  charged  them  every 
one  into  custody.  They  were  carried  before  Justice 
Hungerford,  who  then  lived  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
all  bound  over  to  answer  the  consequences ;  but  they 
were  soon  persuaded  by  their  wiser  friends  to  make  up 
this  matter,  and  the  manager  got  ample  redress.  The 
King,  being  informed  of  the  whole  afiair,  was  highly 


AN  ACTOR  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL,  1 85 

offended,  and  ordered  a  guard  to  attend  that  theatre  as 
well  as  the  other. ' ' 

From  his  memorable  appearance  as  Falstaff  (^mvC  s 
success  seemed  assured,  and  the  death  of  such  favorites 
as  Wilks,  Mistress  Oldfield,  and  Booth  all  tended  to 
his  own  advantage,  as  giving  him  so  much  the  wider 
field  for  his  achievements.  But  now  he  had  left 
Rich's  company,  where  the  prospects  for  his  own  ad- 
vancement were  not  very  encouraging,  and  returned 
to  his  first  love,  Drury  I^ane.  Here  it  was  that  he 
was  called  upon  to  essay  Booth's  old  role  of  Cato^ 
which  was  looked  upon  as  peculiarly  the  property 
of  the  latter,  and  the  new  impersonator  of  the  char- 
acter had  the  tact  to  announce  in  the  play -bill  that 
*'  the  part  of  Cato  would  be  only  attempted  by  Mr. 
Quin."  This  at  once  put  the  town  in  an  amiable  frame 
of  mind  towards  one  who  thus  publicly  intimated  that 
he  had  no  hope  of  supplanting  memories  of  Booth  in 
the  same  play,  and  only  desired  to  modestly  follow,  as 
best  he  might,  in  such  illustrious  footsteps.  The  first 
night  of  the  performance  saw  a  large  and  favorably 
disposed  audience  assembled  at  the  theatre,  and  when 
Quin  spoke  the  lines  : 

"Thanks  to  the  Gods  ! — my  boy  has  done  his  duty," 

the  spectators  were  so  carried  away  with  the  effective- 
ness of  his  acting  that  they  cried  out  *  *  Booth  outdone  ! 
Booth  outdone  !  " 
At  this  period  of  prosperity  Quin  was  in  receipt  of  a 


1 86  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

very  large  salary,  having  been  engaged  on  such  advan- 
tageous terms,  it  was  reported,  "  as  no  hired  actor  has 
had  before."  His  manager  was  a  Mr.  Fleetwood,  who 
had  come  into  possession  of  Drury  L<ane  under  rather 
curious  circumstances,  which  resulted  from  the  selling 
of  their  interest  in  the  old  house  by  Booth  and  Gibber. 
The  new  managers  (including  Highmore)  were  not  to 
the  liking  of  the  company,  and  so  the  players  quietly 
took  themselves  ofif  (1733)  to  the  Little  Theatre  in  the 
Haymarket  and  there  set  up  an  establishment  on  their 
own  account.  This  was  a  serious  blow  to  Highmore 
and  his  colleagues  ;  like  Othello  they  found  their  occu- 
pation gone,  and  they  tried  to  invoke  the  majesty  of 
the  law  to  force  the  mutineers  back,  on  the  presumption 
that  the  revolt,  being  without  authority  of  patent  or 
license,  was  manifestly  illegal.  An  accommodating 
magistrate  granted  a  warrant  for  the  arrest  of  one  of  the 
malcontents,  who  was  seized  while  he  was  on  the  stage, 
and  taken  to  Bridewell,  but  investigation  showed  that 
his  incarceration  was  itself  illegal.  This  put  a  damper 
on  the  proceedings  determined  upon  by  the  proprietors 
of  Drury  Lane,  who  were  left  in  the  ridiculous  position 
of  monarchs  without  subjects  to  reign  over,*  and  so 
they  were  very  glad  to  dispose  of  five  sixths  of  their 
shares  to  Mr.  Fleetwood. 

Fleetwood  was  a  gentleman  of  fortune,   and  when 

*  It  should  be  noted,  however,  that  Highmore  tried  to  keep 
his  house  open  by  engaging  Macklin  and  other  players,  but  the 
plan  was  not  crowned  with  success. 


AM  ACTOR   OF  THE   OLD   SCHOOL,  1 8/ 

the  pantomimic  Rich  (who  was  now  manager  of  the 
Covent  Garden  Theatre,  whither  the  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields  company  had  moved  a  short  time  before)  came 
to  him  with  a  proposal  to  unite  in  the  purchase  of 
Drury  Lane,  he  thought  it  a  very  good  idea.  It  so 
happened,  however,  that  Mr.  Fleetwood  contributed 
the  money  and  Mr.  Rich  simply  furnished  the  experi- 
ence, and  so,  when  a  disagreement  arose  between  the 
two,  the  former  retained  possession  of  the  theatre  and 
his  ex-partner  had  to  take  himself  off  with  nothing 
to  show  for  his  scheme  but  the  one  thing  he  did  not 
need — a  little  more  of  the  self-same  experience. 

The  new  manager  of  Drury  Lane  now  proposed  to 
the  revolters  that  they  should  enlist  under  his  own  stan- 
dard and  they,  nothing  loth,  put  up  the  shutters  of 
their  house  in  the  Haymarket  and  ensconced  themselves 
once  more  under  the  protecting  roof  of  the  Theatre 
Royal.  Each  actor  who  had  a  say  in  the  management 
was  to  receive  two  hundred  pounds  a  year  and  that 
perquisite  then  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  a  professional — 
a  "  clear  benefit."  Quin's  salary  was  made  even 
higher,  in  recognition  of  the  commanding  position 
which  he  now  had  on  the  stage. 

One  of  the  company  happened  to  be  that  very  good- 
for-nothing  gentleman,  Mr.  Theophilus  Gibber,  who, 
had  he  not  been  the  son  of  so  influential  a  man  as  the 
energetic  Colley,  w^ould,  in  all  probability,  never  have 
been  heard  of  by  London  play-goers.  He  was  by  no 
means  a  bad  actor,  for  he  made  a  capital  Pistol  d^nA 


1 88  ECHOES  OF  THE   PLAYHOUSE, 

could  put  much  sparkle  and  humor  into  parts  of  the 
coxcomb  order,  yet,  as  Davies  records,  he  generally 
mixed  so  much  of  falsity  and  grimace  in  his  work  that 
he  often  displeased  the  judicious  spectator.  He  was 
constantly  in  trouble  of  some  kind,  treated  his  wife — a 
far  finer  artist  than  he — in  a  low-spirited  manner,  and 
ended  his  variegated  career  by  getting  drowned  while 
crossing  over  to  Ireland,  Dibdin  refers  to  Theophilus 
as  one  *'who  was  forward  in  all  manner  of  scrapes, 
who  has  been  considered  by  Goldsmith  and  others  to 
have  fortunately  escaped  hanging  by  being  drowned, 
who,  in  short,  was  a  constant  imposition  in  everything 
he  said  or  did,  all  which  is  attributed  by  an  author  to 
his  having  been  born  on  the  day  of  the  most  memorable 
storm  ever  known  in  this  kingdom,  which  happened 
November  26,  1703."  * 

This  grim  caricature  of  a  distinguished  father  (for 
there  was  much  about  him  that  suggested  a  distorted 
image  of  the  worthy  Colley)  soon  displayed  the  inherent 
impishness  of  his  nature  by  disloyalty  to  his  new  man- 
ager. Mr.  Fleetwood  had  an  attack  of  gout,  as  seemed 
to  befit  a  gentleman  of  his  means,  and  Theophilus 
made  use  of  the  circumstance  to  go  about  telling  ever}'- 
body,  in  the  most  confidential  manner,  that  the  manager 
was  heavily  in  debt,  that  the  actors'  wages  were  in 
arrears,  and  that  affairs  at  the  theatre  were  in  the  most 
deplorable  state  imaginable.  This  treachery  was  too 
much  for  Quin,  who,  whatever  may  have  been  his  faults, 

*  The  English  long  after  spoke  of  it  as  the  "great  Storm." 


AM  ACTOR  OF  THE   OLD  SCHOOL.  1 89 

was  straightforward  and  honest,  and  as  he  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  express  his  opinion  of  it  very  forcibly,  he  and 
Mr.  Gibber  soon  had  a  falling  out. 

From  that  time  Theophilus  had  nothing  good  to  say 
of  Quin,  and  the  ill-feeling  that  ever  after  existed 
between  them  came  to  a  head,  years  later,  when  the 
latter  was  about  to  retire  to  Bath  to  spend  the  residue 
of  his  days  in  the  society  of  fashionable  people,  eat 
well-cooked  dinners,  and  give  free  exercise  to 

**  That  tongue,  which  set  the  table  in  a  roar, 
And  charm'd  the  public  ear." 

The  affair  happened  in  the  Bedford  coffee-house, 
which  the  great  actor  was  wont  to  frequent,  and  is  thus 
related  by  the  author  of  the  before  quoted  Life  of  Mr. 
fames  Quin,  Comedian.'^  Gibber,  whose  impertinence 
constantly  kept  pace  with  his  vanity,  having  taken 
something  amiss  that  Quin  said  concerning  his  acting, 
came  one  night  strutting  into  the  coffee-house,  and  hav- 
ing walked  up  to  the  fireplace  he  said  **  He  was  come 
to  call  that  capoii-loined  rascal^  to  an  account  for  taking 
liberties  with  his  character. ' '  Somebody  told  him  that 
he  had  been  passed  by  Quin,  who  was  sitting  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  by  a  window.  *' Ay,  so  I  have 
sure  enough,"  says  he,  *'but  I  see  he  is  busy  talking 
to  Rich,  and  I  won't  disturb  them  now :  I  '11  take  an- 
other opportunity."  "  But,"  continued  his  informant, 
finding  the  backwardness  of  Gibber,  and  willing  to  have 

*This  book  was  originally  published  in  1766. 

t  A  delicate  allusion  to  Quin's  love  for  the  pleasures  of  the 
table. 


190       ECHOES  OF  THE  PLA  Y HOUSE. 

vSorae  sport,  **he  sets  off  for  Bath  to-morrow,  and  may 
not,  perhaps,  be  in  town  again  this  twelvemonth." 
"Is  that  the  case,"  said  Gibber  (somewhat  nettled  at 
finding  his  courage  was  suspected),  '*  then  I  e'en  chas- 
tise him  now." 

Upon  this  he  goes  up  to  Quin  and  calls  out  aloud : 
*'  You — Mr.  Quin,  I  think  you  call  yourself,  I  insist 
upon  satisfaction  for  the  affront  you  gave  me  yesterday 
— dem-me. "  "If  you  have  a  mind  to  be  flogged ' '  (re- 
plied Quin)  "  I  '11  do  it  for  you  with  all  my  heart,  d — mn 
me!"  "Draw,  Sir!"  resumed  Gibber,  "or  I'll  be 
through  you  this  instant." 

'  *  This ' '  (said  Quin)  "  is  an  improper  place  to  rehearse 
Lord  Foppingtonm  ;  but  if  you  '11  go  under  the  Piazza, 
I  may,  perhaps,  make  you  put  up  your  sword  faster 
than  you  drew  it."  Gibber  now  went  out  ;  Quin  fol- 
lowed, when  they  immediately  drew.  Gibber  parried, 
and  retreated  as  far  as  the  garden  rails,  when  Quin, 
tired  with  trifling  so  long,  made  a  lunge  and  stumbled 
over  a  stone.  This  is  too  golden  an  opportunity  for 
the  valiant  Theophilus  to  lose,  so  he  accordingly  makes 
a  bold  thrust  at  the  prostrate  actor,  slightly  injuring 
him  in  the  forehead,  and  runs  off"  "  full  speed  towards 
the  church,  as  if  for  sanctuary." 

It  seems  to  have  been  the  fate  of  Quin,  with  all  his 
good  traits,  to  go  through  life  with  an  excitement  of 
some  sort  always  on  hand.  On  one  occasion  he  waxed 
very  angry  over  a  paragraph  written  by  Aaron  Hill  in 
The  Prompter  (1735)  and  had  a  rough  and  tumble  fight 


AN  ACTOR   OF  THE   OLD   SCHOOL.  I9I 

with  the  author  as  a  result.  The  offending  article  spoke 
of  the  actor  as  "Mr.  All- weight "  and  informed  him 
that  *'  to  be  always  deliberate  and  solemn  is  an  error,  as 
certainly,  though  not  as  unpardonably,  as  never  to  be 
so.  To  pause  where  no  pauses  are  necessary,  is  the 
way  to  destroy  their  effect  when  the  sense  stands  in 
need  of  their  assistance.  And,  though  dignity  is  finely 
maintained  by  the  weight  of  majestic  composure,  yet  are 
there  scenes  in  your  parts  where  the  voice  should  be 
sharp  and  impatient,  the  look  disordered  and  agonized, 
the  action  precipitate  and  turbulent ;  for  the  sake  of 
such  difference  as  we  see  in  some  smooth  canal,  where 
the  stream  is  scarce  visible  compared  with  the  other 
end  of  the  same  canal,  rushing  rapidly  down  a  cascade, 
and  breaking  beauties  which  owe  their  attraction  to 
violence."  Mr.  Hill's  critique  was  evidently  a  just 
one,  yet  what  actor,  be  he  ever  so  great,  cares  to  have 
his  faults  publicly  analyzed.  He  may  talk  very  beau- 
tifully about  his  desire  to  court  criticism,  But  even  one 
dissenting  word  in  a  long  paean  of  praise  will  grate  on 
him  as  harshly  as  does  one  false  note  on  the  sensitive 
ear  of  a  musician. 

But  to  return  to  the  artistic  career  of  the  '*  deliberate  " 
player  who  was  chided  in  the  above  sketch.  In  the 
season  of  1738-39  he  scores  a  fine  success  in  Mustapha, 
a  play  wherein  the  parts  of  Solyman,  the  Magnificent, 
and  Rustan,  his  vizier,  are  supposed  to  refer  indirectly 
to  King  George  II.  and  Sir  Robert  Walpole.  On  the 
night  of  its  first  performance  the  opponents  of  the  Court 


192       ECHOES  OP  THE  PLA  Y HOUSE. 

party  are  out  in  force,  and  there,  in  one  of  the  boxes, 
is  the  distinguished  Pope,  who  goes  behind  the  scenes 
and  warmly  compliments  Quin  on  his  impersonation  of 
Solyman.  The  actor  is  delighted,  of  course,  and  when 
a  servant  brings  the  poet  his  scarlet  coat  Mr.  Quin,  all 
smiles  and  politeness,  rushes  forward  and  adjusts  it 
with  his  own  hands. 

The  next  season  sees  him  giving  a  personal  explana- 
tion to  his  audience,  all  because  a  certain  play  called 
The  Fatal  Retirement  has  proved  a  fiasco.  Quin  had 
refused  to  act  in  it,  and  the  author,  a  Mr.  Brown,  makes 
up  his  mind  that  this  circumstance  had  much  to  do  with 
the  failure  of  the  piece.  So  the  friends  of  the  angered 
Brown  fly  to  his  rescue  and  make  things  unpleasant  for 
James  every  time  he  appears  on  the  stage  after  the 
single  performance  of  the  quickly  retired  Retirement. 
Quin,  not  to  be  browbeaten,  comes  forward  one  night 
and  tells  the  house  * '  that  at  the  request  of  the  author 
he  had  read  his  piece  before  it  was  acted,  and  given  him 
his  very  sincere  opinion  of  it ;  that  it  was  the  very  worst 
play  he  had  ever  read  in  his  life,  and  for  that  reason  he 
had  refused  to  act  in  it. ' '  This  quickly  disposed  of  Mr. 
Brown  and  his  admirers. 

The  next  year  Quin  is  basking  in  the  bright  sunshine 
of  royalty,  for  he  acts  in  the  gardens  of  Cliefden  before 
Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales,  Prince  George  (afterward 
George  III.),  and  others  of  the  hei r- apparent' s  house- 
hold. Milward,  Mills,  and  more  players  were  there, 
not  forgetting  the  hoy deuish  Kitty  Clive,  who  "  pleas' d 


AN  ACTOR  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL,  1 93 

by  hiding  all  attempts  to  please, ' '  and  Davies  says  of 
the  affair  :  *  *  The  accommodation  for  the  company,  I 
was  told,  was  but  scanty  and  ill-managed,  and  the 
players  were  not  treated  as  persons  ought  to  be  who 
are  employed  by  a  prince.  Quin,  I  believe,  was  ad- 
mitted among  those  of  the  higher  order,  and  Mrs. 
Clive  might  be  safely  trusted  to  take  care  of  herself 
anywhere."  The  favored  Quin  was  held  in  high  es- 
teem by  Frederick,  whose  children  he  instructed  in 
elocution  and  even  in  the  art  of  amateur  acting,  and 
it  is  related  that  when,  in  after  years,  he  was  told  what 
a  good  impression  George  III.  made  in  delivering  his 
first  speech  from  the  throne,  the  old  man  cried  out 
proudly  :  *'  Ay  ;  I  taught  the  boy  to  speak  !  " 

In  the  summer  of  1741,  Quin  paid  a  professional 
visit  to  Dublin  (where  he  had  played  two  years  before), 
in  company  with  Ryan,  Mrs.  Clive,  and  Mademoiselle 
Chateauneuf,  a  danseuse  of  great  European  reputa- 
tion. This  was  a  delightful  combination  for  the  ap- 
preciative Irish,  who  were  quick  to  recognize  the  value 
of  the  dramatic  feast  spread  out  for  their  approval, 
even  though  the  receipts  at  the  theatre  were  often  so 
meagre  that  the  prudent  Quin  would  never  allow  the 
curtain  to  be  raised  until  his  salary  had  been  brought 
to  him  behind  the  scenes.  He  played  the  classic  Cato 
to  the  delight  of  a  crowded  audience,  and  afterward 
figured  as  Othello — a  very  ponderous  sort  of  Moor  he 
must  have  been— and  went  through  a  round  of  his 
other  favorite  parts,  including  the  senile  Lear.    In  the 


194  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLA  Y HOUSE, 

latter  performance  he  was  assisted  by  the  bouncing 
CHve  as  Cordelia,  and  a  pretty  bad  example  of  the  good 
daughter  she  probably  made. 

*'  Mrs.  Clive  was  the  best  player  I  ever  saw  "  was 
the  comment  of  Dr.  Johnson,  which  was  "praise  in- 
deed ' '  from  a  Sir  Hubert  who  affected  to  despise  the 
stage,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  in  her  own  line  of 
bustling  chambermaids  and  irrepressible  hoydens  she 
must  have  been  a  delight  even  to  the  most  critical. 
She  "had  a  facetious  turn  of  humor/'  says  Chet- 
wood,  "and  infinite  spirits,  with  a  voice  and  manner 
in  singing  songs  of  pleasantry  peculiar  to  herself." 
When  only  twelve  years  old,  Kitty  Raft  or  (her  father 
was  an  Irish  gentleman  named  Raftor  who  followed 
the  fortunes  of  James  II.,  accompanied  him  to  France,. 
and  served  for  a  time  as  an  army  officer  under  the 
standard  of  I^ouis  XIV.),  had  such  a  love  for  the  the- 
atre that  she  used  to  tag  after  Mr.  Wilks  in  the  street, 
to  use  her  own  expression,  and  gape  at  him  as  a  won- 
der. Later  on  Chetwood  brought  her  to  the  attention 
of  Colley  Gibber,  who  took  her  into  his  company  on  a 
salary  of  twenty  shillings  a  week,  and  from  that  mo- 
ment her  future  was  assured.  Even  when  the  London 
public  would  have  none  of  Gibber's  Love  in  a  Riddle 
her  presence  in  the  cast  commanded  attention,  and 
Chetwood  relates  that  as  she  came  on  in  the  part  of 
Phillida  the  tumult  in  the  house  temporarily  subsided. 
"  A  person  in  the  stage  box,  next  to  my  post,  called 
out  to  his  companion  in  the  following  elegant  style  : 


AN  ACTOR   OF  THE   OLD  SCHOOL.  I95 

*  Zounds,  Tom  !  take  care,  or  this  charming  little  devil 
will  save  all.'  " 

This  '*  charming  little  devil,"  who,  by  the  way,  once 
referred  to  Garrick  as  *'  that  artful  devil,"  must  have 
been  a  remarkable  compound  of  ugliness  and  fascina- 
tion, vulgarity  and  naivete,  bad  temper  and  shrewd 
common-sense.  In  her  last  years  she  retired  to  a  villa 
at  Strawberry  Hill,  where  she  had  for  an  admiring 
neighbor  the  gossipy  Horace  Walpole,  and  it  was  in 
these  quiet  days  that  Frederick  Reynolds  met  her  at 
a  card  party  and  found  out  that  the  inroads  of  time  had 
exerted  no  effect  on  her  well-known  petulence.  '  *  Quad- 
rille was  proposed,  and  all  immediately  took  their  sta- 
tions. .  .  .  I  soon  observed  Mrs.  Clive's  countenance 
alternately  redden  and  turn  pale,  while  her  antago- 
nist vainly  attempted  the  suppression  of  a  satisfaction 
that  momentarily  betrayed  itself  in  the  curling  corners 
of  her  ugly  mouth,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  her  piggish 
eyes.  At  last  her  Manille  went,  and  with  it  the  rem- 
nants of  her  temper.  Her  face  was  of  an  universal 
crimson,  and  tears  of  rage  seemed  ready  to  start  into 
her  eyes.  At  that  very  moment,  as  Satan  would  have 
it,  her  opponent,  a  dowager  whose  hoary  head  and  eye- 
brows were  as  white  as  those  of  an  Albiness,  triumph- 
antly and  briskly  demanded  payment  for  the  two  black 
aces.  '  Two  black  aces  !  '  answered  the  enraged  loser, 
in  a  voice  rendered  almost  unintelligible  by  pavSsion, 

*  here,  take  the  money,  though  instead,  I  wish  I  could 
give  you  two  black  ej/es,  yoii  old  white  cat.^  " 


196  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

Quill  remained  in  Ireland  until  February,  1741-42, 
and  when  he  got  back  to  London  he  was  pained  to 
learn  that  the  young  Garrick,  then  in  the  very  begin- 
ning of  his  career,  had  caught  the  fancy  of  the  fickle 
public.  ''Garrick  is  a  new  religion,  and  Whitefield 
is  followed  for  a  time,"  he  growled,  "  but  they  will  all 
come  to  church  again."  And  to  this  the  younger  rival 
answered  by  writing  : 

"Pope  Quin,  who  damns  all  churches  but  his  own, 
Complains  that  heresy  corrupts  the  town  : 
That  Whitefield  Garrick  has  misled  the  age. 
'Schism,'  he  cries,  *  has  turned  the  nation's  brain, 
But  eyes  -vyiH  open,  and  to  church  again  ! ' 
Thou  great  Infallible,  forbear  to  roar, 
Thy  bulls  and  errors  are  rever'd  no  more  ; 
When  doctrines  meet  with  general  approbation, 
It  is  not  heresy,  but  reformation." 

From  this  time  on  Quin  made  ineffectual  attempts  to 
keep  himself  upon  the  pedestal  which  he  had  so  long 
occupied,  but  Garrick  was  the  coming  man,  and  noth- 
ing that  the  veteran  could  do  proved  great  enough  to 
bring  back  the  undivided  allegiance  of  the  town.  In 
the  season  of  1746-7  he  acted  at  Covent  Garden,  where 
Garrick  also  appeared,  and  it  is  recorded  that  his  Rich- 
ard III.  ''could  scarcely  draw  together  a  decent  appear- 
ance of  company  in  the  boxes,  and  he  was  with  some 
difficulty  tolerated  in  the  part,  when  Garrick  acted  the 
same  character  to  crowded  houses,  and  with  very  great 
applause." 

Poor  Quin.     He  had  fallen   on   strange  days,  and 


AN  ACTOR   OF  THE   OLD   SCHOOL.  1 97 

his  temper,  never  a  model  one,  suffered  not  a  little  from 
his  reverses.  He  soon  had  a  falling  out  with  Rich,  the 
manager,  and  went  off  in  a  huff  to  Bath,  (1748,)  where 
he  rusticated  until  the  beginning  of  the  next  season. 
Then  he  sent  the  following  brief  note  to  Rich,  intending 
it,  probably,  in  the  double  light  of  an  apology  and  a 
gentle  reminder  : 

"I  am  at  Bath.  Quin."  To  this  the  manager  la- 
conically replied  : 

** Stay  there  and  be  damned.     Rich." 

Subsequently,  however,  he  returned  to  London,  and 
continued  on  the  stage  with  varying  fortune  until  May, 
1 75 1.  A  few  weeks  earlier  he  had  been  given  a  bene- 
fit, just  three  days  before  the  death  of  his  most  influen- 
tial patron,  the  Prince  of  Wales.  By  command  of  the 
latter  the  play  selected  was  Othello,  with  Quin  as  lago, 
Spranger  Barry  in  the  title  part,  and  Mrs.  Gibber  as 
Desdemona.  And  yet,  melancholy  to  say,  the  theatre 
was  far  from  well-filled.  Quin  emerged  several  times 
afterward  from  his  pleasant  exile  at  Bath  to  play  in 
London,  the  last  occasion  being  in  1753,  when  he  re- 
vived his  famous  impersonation  of  Falstaff  at  a  benefit 
for  his  friend  Ryan.  It  is  cheerful  to  think  that  on  this 
"'  positive^  last  appearance  "  the  old  actor  had  a  right 
worthy  reception  ;  indeed,  his  success  was  so  great  that 
Ryan  asked  him  to  repeat  the  performance  the  follow- 
ing year.  He  declined,  however,  for  he  had  recently 
lost  two  of  his  front  teeth,  and  he  explained  his  refusal 
in  this  terse  letter : 


198  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

"  My   dear  friend — There   is  no  person   on   earth, 

whom  I  would  sooner  serve  than  Ryan — but,  by ,  I 

will  whistle  Falstaffiox  no  man." 

Once  that  he  had  settled  down  comfortably  at  Bath, 
to  enjoy  the  tittle-tattle  of  the  visitors,  and  his  wine, 
whist,  and  venison,  all  of  which  he  could  command 
through  his  income  from  a  respectable  annuity,  Quin 
forgot  his  troubles  and  became  one  of  the  wits  of  the 
place.  He  loved  to  talk  of  the  good  things  of  the 
table,  and  he  even  invented  what  he  styled  his  *  *  Sia- 
mese" soup*  ;  indeed,  he  prated  so  incessantly  about 
his  gourmandizing  that  he  probably  got  a  worse  repu- 
tation in  that  respect  than  he  deserved.  How  wide- 
spread was  the  popular  belief  on  the  vSubject  is  shown 
by  Smollett'  s  saying  in  Humphrey  C/ifiker  that  "  Quin 
is  a  real  voluptuary  in  the  articles  of  eating  and  drink- 
ing ;  and  so  confirmed  an  epicure  in  the  common  accep- 
tation of  the  term,  that  he  cannot  put  up  with  ordinary 
fare."  And  Garrick  in  a  prologue  to  Florizel  and  Per- 
dita,  spoken  at  Drury  Lane  in  1756,  had  a  thought  for 
Quin's  weakness  when  he  said  : 

*  It  is  told  that  Quin  was  so  much  bothered  by  importunate 
friends  to  divulge  the  recipe  of  this  soup  that,  in  revenge,  he  in- 
vited a  number  of  them  to  dinner,  promising  to  tell  them  of 
the  ingredients  before  they  departed.  When  it  came  time  to 
leave  the  guests  were  horrified  to  discover  that  the  liquid  they 
had  so.  much  enjoyed,  on  the  supposition  that  they  were  tasting 
the  genuine  "  Siamese  "  decoction,  had  been  seasoned  with  a 
pair  of  old  shoes,  chopped  into  mincemeat. 


AN  ACTOR   OF  THE   OLD   SCHOOL,  1 99 

"  But  should  you  call  for  Falslaff,  where  to  find  him, 
He's  gone,  nor  left  one  cup  of  sack  behind  him. 
Sunk  in  his  elbow  chair,  no  more  he  '11  roam. 
No  more  with  merry  wags  to  Bastcheap  come  ; 
He  *sgone — to  jest,  and  laugh,  and  give  his  sack  at  home." 

The  old  fellow  departed  this  life,  with  all  its  capons, 
turtle  soup,  and  cheering  liquors,  early  in  the  year  1766. 
A  malignant  fever  carried  him  off ;  but  the  ruling  pas- 
sion was  strong  even  in  his  last  moments,  and  the  day 
before  his  taking  away  he  drank  a  bottle  of  claret — the 
worst  thing  that  he  could  have  done  under  the  circum- 
stances— and  expressed  the  hope  that  he  should  leave 
all  the  pleasures  of  life  with  becoming  dignity.  And 
so  ended  the  career  of  one  of  the  most  striking  per- 
sonalities of  the  eighteenth  century,  in  whom  so  many 
contradicting  qualities  struggled  for  mastery.  As  an 
actor  stilted  yet  commanding  and  forceful,  as  a  man 
bad  tempered  and  sensual,  but  generous,  honest,  and 
witty — such  was  James  Quin,  on  whose  tomb  might 
justly  have  been  written  :  "After  life's  fitful  fever  he 
sleeps  well." 


CHAPTER  X. 

AN  IRISH  SHYLOCK. 

SINCE  the  golden  days  of  the  old  Globe  Theatre 
the  character  of  Shylock  had  been  a  favorite 
one  for  the  English  actor  to  test  his  mettle  with,  yet  it 
remained  for  an  Irishman  to  play  the  money-lender  as 
none  other  had  been  able  to  do  before  him,  and  as  few, 
if  any,  have  done  since.  This  Shylock^  of  whom  the 
critical  Pope  said 

'*  This  is  the  Jew 
That  Shakespeare  drew," 

was  none  other  than  Charles  Macklin,  who,  though  he 
played  many  different  parts,  is  now  best  known  to  fame 
in  connection  with  the  Merchant  of  Venice.  He  was 
one  of  the  most  disagreeable  personalities,  as  he  was  also 
one  of  the  grandest  actors,  who  ever  trod  the  boards  of 
an  English  theatre ;  boorish,  quarrelsome,  and  coarse, 
with  an  unpleasant  face,  (whose  lines  were  once  irrev- 
erently spoken  of  as  **  cordage,")  yet  for  all  this  a 
rough  diamond  of  the  first  water,  who  sparkled  ever  so 
brilliantly  on  the  stage,  however  unpolished  he  might 
seem  amid  less  congenial  surroundings. 

200 


MACKLIN  AND   DUNSTALL. 

A  SCENE  FROM  COLLEY  GIBBER'S    "  THE  PROVOKED  HUSBAND."       FROM  THE  DRAWING  BY  DODD. 


AN  IRISH  SHY  LOCK.  20I 

Macklin's  span  of  life  almost  exactly  covered  the 
eighteenth  century,  his  birth  occurring,  presumably, 
about  1699  and  his  death  in  1797.  His  first  king  was 
William  III.,  his  last  was  George  III.  ;  when  he  was 
an  ugly,  unattractive  little  brat  Marlborough  dominated 
the  military  stage,  and  Betterton  still  figured  on  the 
mimic  boards,  the  lovely  Bracegirdle  charmed  all  I^on- 
don,  and  Garrick  was  yet  unborn  ;  when  he  died  Na- 
poleon Bonaparte  had  appeared  on  the  horizon  of 
history,  Garrick  had  been  gathered  to  his  fathers 
these  eighteen  years,  and  the  boy  Edmund  Kean  had 
already  begun,  in  poverty  and  drudgery,  that  phenome- 
nal career  whose  blaze  of  glory  would  be  quenched  in 
tears  and  fire-water.  The  father  of  the  future  Jew 
was  a  Presbyterian  farmer  of  Ulster,  William  Mcl^augh- 
lin  by  name,  and  his  mother  happened  to  be  a  devout 
Roman  Catholic,  so  that  the  contradictions  and  contrasts 
in  the  disposition  of  young  Charles  seem  to  have  had 
a  certain  excuse  in  the  want  of  religious  harmony  ex- 
isting in  the  paternal  household.  In  the  course  of 
several  years  McLaughlin,  who,  despite  his  Presbyte- 
rianism  had  been  a  firm  adherent  of  the  cause  of  James 
II.,  died  of  a  broken  heart,  **  a  victim  to  misapplied 
loyalty  and  mistaken  generosity,"  and  the  widow  dried 
her  eyes  in  time  to  marry  the  landlord  of  a  Dublin  inn. 
Her  first  husband  was  the  descendant  of  an  Irish  King, 
but  Celtic  sovereigns  could  be  had  at  a  discount  in  the 
Kmerald  Isle,  and  well-to-do  tavern  keepers  were  not 
fit  subjects  for  the  turning  up  of  one's  pretty  nose. 


202  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

Charles  was  now  packed  off  to  a  boarding-school 
near  Dublin,  kept  by  a  Scotch  pedagogue,  and  here  he 
proved  a  troublesome  sort  of  pupil,  getting  a  sound 
whipping  pretty  much  every  day,  and  developing  what 
his  biographer,  Kirkman,  calls  a  talent  of  mimicry 
'  *  which  he  exercised  to  the  continual  annoyance  of  the 
pedant,  by  counterfeiting  alternately  the  voices  of  him 
and  his  wife  Harriet,  and  calling  aloud  upon  either,  in 
the  voice  of  the  other  so  exactly,  as  to  baffle  all  their 
vigilance  in  guarding  against  his  pranks." 

During  these  wild  school-days  young  Mclyaughlin 
took  part  in  a  performance  of  The  Orphafi,  gotten  up 
by  a  lady  of  the  neighborhood,  and  being  cast  for  the 
fair  Moftimia,  acquitted  himself  with  glory,  imbibing, 
at  the  same  time,  that  taste  for  the  drama  which  was 
soon  to  have  such  influence  on  his  career.  "  To  those 
who  recollect  the  figure  and  the  cast  of  countenance  of 
the  veteran,"  writes  William  Cooke,  another  biographer 
of  Macklin,  ' '  it  must  be  difficult  to  reconcile  the  pos- 
sibility of  his  performing  this  part  at  any  time  of  life 
with  the  smallest  degree  of  propriety  ;  however,  if  we 
are  to  take  his  own  word  for  it  (which  is  all  the  author- 
ity that  can  be  adduced)  he  not  only  looked  the  gentle 
Monimia,  but  performed  it  with  every  degree  of  ap- 
plause and  encouragement.  The  play  was  repeated 
three  times  with  great  applause  before  several  of  the 
surrounding  gentry  and  tenants,  and  every  time  he  felt 
himself  acquire  additional  reputation." 

Soon  after  this  juvenile  triumph  the  aspiring  Monimia, 


AN  IRISH  SHYLOCK,  203 

now  in  very  masculine  mood,  ran  away  from  home 
with  a  few  pounds  of  his  mother's  money  in  his  pockets 
and  escaped  over  to  lyondon  in  company  with  two 
equally  fly-away  youths,  one  of  whom  eventually  ended 
his  career  on  the  scaffold.  After  arriving  at  the  metrop- 
olis, McLaughlin  (for  he  had  not  then  changed  his  name 
to  Macklin)  lived  in  great  luxury  for  several  weeks,  pat- 
ronizing all  the  theatrical  performances  and  otherwise 
enjoying  himself,  and  then,  when  his  funds  had  disap- 
peared, found  employment  in  a  public-house  which  a 
lot  of  mountebanks  used  as  a  rendezvous.  Here,  "  by 
dint  of  genius  and  a  high  flow  of  spirits,  "he  *  *  became 
the  delight  of  all  who  frequented  the  house.  He  sung 
for  them,  he  danced,  he  mimicked,  he  spouted,  and  he 
played  the  droll,  insomuch  that  his  fame  spread  abroad, 
and  the  house  was  every  night  filled  with  respectable 
opulent  dealers.  Clubs  and  meetings  were  instituted 
for  the  purpose  of  enjoying  the  entertainment  he  af- 
forded. In  short,  he  became  a  most  pleasing  and  pop- 
ular character  in  that  circle,  and  more  than  trebled  the 
income  of  the  house  by  his  talents. ' '  * 

The  rosy  widow  who  kept  the  inn  thought  so  much 
of  Master  McLaughlin  that  she  proposed  to  marry  him, 
and  it  is  even  said  that  they  went  through  the  form  of 
a  wedding,  but  be  that  as  it  may,  he  was  soon  induced 
to  return  to  Dublin  and  accept  the  modest  position  of 
* '  badgeman  ' '  or  porter  at  Trinity  College.  A  badge- 
man  was  subject  to  the  call  of  the  students,  upon 
*  Kirkman. 


204  ECHOES  OF   THE  FLA  Y HO  USE. 

whom  he  was  expected  to  wait,  and  whenever  it  was 
his  turn  to  serve,  and  he  heard  the  cry  of  "  Boy"  he 
would  reply  ' '  What  number  ?  "  to  learn  what  room 
he  should  go  to  for  his  orders.  Long  after  these  un- 
pleasant experiences  of  servitude  Macklin  happened  to 
be  playing  at  the  Dublin  Theatre  when  a  party  of  bois- 
terous young  fellows  created  a  disturbance  in  the  house. 
The  actor  came  forward  and  soundly  scolded  them  for 
their  impertinence,  much  to  the  chagrin  of  the  black- 
guards, and  one  of  them,  intending  to  be  very  insult- 
ing, brutally  cried  out  "Boy!"  This  ungenerous 
reference  to  his  old  college  days  disconcerted  Macklin 
for  a  second,  but  when  he  replied,  the  very  next 
moment,  "What  number?"  the  house  fairly  shook 
with  the  applause  that  rewarded  his  ready  wit  and 
presence  of  mind. 

For  a  youth  like  Macklin  the  life  of  a  badgeman 
proved  even  more  than  usually  repulsive,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  he  shook  the  dust  of  Trinity  from  his 
feet,  and  turned  strolling  actor,  finally  bringing  up  as 
a  member  of  an  itinerant  companj^  recently  established 
in  a  small  theatre  at  Bristol.  With  this  place  as  a  base 
of  operation  he  travelled  through  Welsh  and  English 
towns  and  villages,  being  all  things  by  turns,  from 
stage  manager  or  preserver  of  the  peace  to  playwright 
and  actor,  and  gaining  in  this  curious  school  of  dra- 
matic adversity  no  end  of  valuable  experience.  ' '  Some- 
times he  was  an  architect,  and  knocked  up  the  stage 
and  seats  in  a  barn  ;  sometimes  he  wrote  an  opening 


AN  IRISH  SHY  LOGIC,  20^ 

prologue,  or  a  parting  epilogue,  for  the  company  :  at 
others  he  wrote  a  song,  complimentary  and  adulatory 
to  the  village  they  happened  to  play  in,  which  he  al- 
ways adapted  to  some  sprightly  popular  air,  and  sung 
himself ;  and  he  often  was  champion,  and  stood  forward 
to  repress  the  persons  who  were  accustomed  to  intrude 
upon  and  be  rude  to  the  actors." 

Those  were  days  when  a  player's  path  was  seldom 
strewn  with  roses,  but  for  all  that  his  very  trials  and 
tribulations  helped  to  bring  out  any  talent  that  might 
be  in  him.  What  would  not  a  few  Thespians  of  mod- 
ern times  say  to  roughing  it  after  such  a  fashion,  ac- 
customed, as  they  too  often  are,  to  presenting  but  one 
character  night  after  night,  perhaps  for  three  or  four 
seasons  at  a  stretch,  and  thinking  themselves  in  poor 
luck  when  called  to  take  part  in  an  occasional  rehearsal. 
How  would  they  like  the  sensation,  quite  a  familiar 
one  to  Macklin,  of  playing  in  one  evening  Antonio  and 
Belvidera  in  Venice  Preserved,  Harlequin  in  the  inci- 
dental entertainment,  singing  three  humorous  songs 
between  the  acts  and  furnishing,  in  addition  to  all  this, 
a  lively  Irish  jig.  But  this  was  the  sort  of  discipline 
the  stroller  was  subjected  to  until  he  drifted  back  to 
lyondon,  and  appeared  at  lyincoln's  Inn  Fields  in  1725 
as  Alcander  in  the  CEdipus  of  Dryden  and  I^ee. 

But  it  was  to  be  some  years,  however,  before  Macklin 
could  score  any  real  success  on  the  metropolitan  stage, 
for  his  cultivation  of  dramatic  methods  more  natural 
than  those  of  his  contemporaries  was  by  no  means  ap- 


206  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

predated  on  his  first  emerging  from  the  provinces.  "  I 
spoke  so  familiar,  sir,"  he  related  years  afterwards, 
'*  and  so  Httle  in  the  hoity-toity  tone  of  the  tragedy  of 
that  day,  that  the  manager  *  told  me  I  had  better  go 
to  grass  for  another  year  or  two. ' '  To  grass  he  did  go 
for  a  year  or  two,  playing  once  more  in  oft-visited 
neighborhoods,  making  Herculean  efforts  to  get  rid  of 
his  Irish  brogue,  and  succeeding,  changing  his  name 
to  Mecklin  or  Macklin,  as  a  concession  to  English 
prejudice,  changing  his  religion  too,  and  boasting  that 
he  was  as  staunch  a  Protestant  as  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury.  It  was  during  this  transition  period,  also, 
that  the  adopter  of  a  new  accent,  name,  and  creed,  fur- 
ther altered  his  condition  by  taking  to  himself  a  wife 
who  was  afterwards  to  win  distinction  in  her  husband's 
profession.! 

When  the  Drury  Lane  actors  revolted  from  the  man- 
agement of  Highmore  and  set  up  for  themselves  in  the 
Haymarket,  Macklin  and  his  wife  were  engaged  to  ap- 
pear at  the  former  house,  and  it  was  here  that  the  man 

*  Rich. 

f  One  authority  says  that  before  her  marriage  Mrs.  Macklin 
was  a  Mrs.  Ann  Grace,  the  widow  of  a  Dublin  hosier,  while 
according  to  another  oracle  she  was  originally  a  Miss  Grace 
Purvor,  with  whose  charms  His  Grace  of  Argyle  had  been 
deeply  smitten.  She  eventually  achieved  a  great  reputation  in 
"  old  woman's  "  parts  of  the  comic  order,  and  Chetwood  writes 
of  her:  "She  never  sets  up  for  a  heroine,  or  attempts  to  ap- 
pear in  an  improper  light ;  she  knows  the  power  of  her  own 
talents,  and  always  shines  with  unborrow'd  light,  without  the 
danger  of  being  eclipsed." 


AN  IRISH  SHYLOCK.  207 

who  had  been  invited  to  "go  to  grass  ' '  began  to  build 
the  foundations  of  a  great  reputation  by  essaying,  with 
considerable  approbation,  a  number  of  the  elder  Gib- 
ber's parts.  On  the  return  of  the  original  company, 
under  the  standard  of  Fleetwood,  Macklin  left  Drury 
I^ane,  and  played  for  a  time  in  the  Haymarket.  He 
soon  re-appeared  at  the  old  stand,  however,  and  quickly 
became  the  confidant  and  adviser  of  the  new  manager, 
as  well  as  his  companion  at  White's  gambling  estab- 
lishment. Fleetwood  lost  large  sums  of  money  through 
too  frequent  visits  to  this  delectable  resort,  and  having 
recourse  to  borrowing  once  induced  Macklin  to  go  his 
bond  to  the  tune  of  three  thousand  pounds.  The  ac- 
tor contrived  to  have  the  poet  Whitehead  take  his  place 
as  the  bondsman,  and  when  Fleetwood,  head  over  ears 
in  debt,  fled  from  the  kingdom  to  escape  his  creditors, 
the  obliging  versifier,  being  utterly  unable  to  pay  the 
amount  for  which  he  was  now  responsible,  had  to  lan- 
guish in  jail  for  a  lengthy  period. 

The  excuse  of  Macklin,  that  "  every  man  will  save 
himself  from  ruin  if  he  can  "  will  not  heighten  our  idea 
of  his  personal  character,  nor  does  a  tragic  occurrence 
of  the  year  1735  put  his  fierce  temper  before  us  in  any 
but  a  wretched  light.  This  occurrence  was  nothing  less 
than  the  killing  of  Thomas  Hallam,  a  fellow- member 
of  the  Drury  I^ane  company,  as  the  result  of  a  childish 
quarrel  over  the  ownership  of  a  wig.  Perhaps  the  story 
will  be  best  told  by  giving  the  testimony  of  Thomas 
Arne,  who  happened  to  be  a  witness  when  Macklin  had 


2o8  ECHOES  OP  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

to  stand  trial  for  his  life  at  the  Old  Bailey.     Arne  de- 
posed *  : 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  be  the  numberer  of  the  boxes 
of  Drury  Lane  play-house,  under  Mr.  Fleetwood.  On 
Saturday  night  [May  loth]  I  delivered  my  accounts  in 
at  the  property  office;  and  then,  at  eight,  I  came  into 
the  scene  room,  where  the  players  warm  themselves, 
and  sat  in  a  chair  at  the  side  of  the  fire.  Fronting  the 
fire  there  is  a  long  seat,  where  five  or  six  may  sit.  The 
play  \Trick  for  Trick]  was  almost  done,  and  they 
were  making  preparations  for  the  entertainment,  when 
the  prisoner  came  into  the  same  room  and  sat  down 
next  to  me,  and  high  words  arose  between  him  and  the 
deceased  about  a  stock  wig  for  a  disguise  in  the  enter- 
tainment. The  prisoner  had  played  in  the  wig  the 
night  before,  and  now,  the  deceased  had  got  it.  '  D — n 
you  for  a  rogue,'  says  the  prisoner;  'what  business 
have  you  with  my  wig  ? '  *  I  am  no  more  a  rogue  than 
yourself,'  says  the  deceased.  '  It 's  a  stock  wig,  and  I 
have  as  much  right  to  it  as  you  have. '  Some  of  the 
players  coming  in,  they  desired  the  deceased  to  fetch 
the  wig,  and  give  it  to  the  prisoner,  which  he  did  and 
then  said  to  him,  *  Here  is  your  wig.  I  have  got  one 
I  like  better.'  The  prisoner  sitting  by  me,  took  the 
wig,  and  began  to  comb  it  out,  and  all  seemed  to  be 
quiet  for  about  half  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ;  but  the  pris- 
oner began  to  grumble  again,  and  said  to  the  deceased, 

*  This  testimony  is  quoted  by  Edward  A.  Parry  in  his  inter- 
esting memoirs  of  Macklin. 


AN  IRISH  SHYLOCK.  209 

*  G — d  d — n  you  for  a  blackguard,  scrub,  rascal,  how- 
durst  you  have  the  impudence  to  take  this  wig  ?  ' 

*'The  deceased  answered,  'I  am  no  more  a  rascal 
than  yourself. '  Upon  which  the  prisoner  started  up 
from  his  chair,  and  with  a  stick  in  his  hand,  made  a 
lunge  at  the  deceased,  and  thrust  the  stick  into  his  left 
eye,  and,  pulling  it  back  again,  looked  pale,  turned  on 
his  heel,  and,  in  a  passion,  threw  the  stick  into  the  fire. 
'  G — d  d — n  it  ! '  says  he  ;  and,  turning  about  again  on 
his  heel,  he  sat  down.  The  deceased  clapped  his  hand 
to  his  eye,  and  said  it  was  gone  through  his  head.  He 
was  going  to  sink,  but  they  set  him  in  a  chair.  The 
prisoner  came  to  him,  and  leaning  upon  his  left  arm, 
put  his  hand  to  his  eye.     *  I^ord  !  '  cried  the  deceased, 

*  it  is  out  !  '  *  No, '  says  the  prisoner,  '  I  feel  the  ball  roll 
under  my  hand.'  Young  Mr.  Gibber  came  in,  and  im- 
mediately sent  for  Mr.  Coldham,  the  surgeon." 

The  unfortunate  Hallam  died  within  a  few  hours, 
and  the  only  punishment  that  seems  to  have  been  meted 
out  to  Macklin  was  an  empty  verdict  of  manslaughter. 
Viewing  the  latter  simply  as  an  actor,  we  are  glad  to 
see  him  soon  back  again  at  Drury  Lane,  popular  as 
ever,  but  judging  him  quite  apart  from  his  profession 
one  cannot  but  regret  that  he  suffered  so  little  for  his 
brutal  lack  of  self-control. 

During  these  early  days  in  London  a  great  rivalry 

sprang  up  between  Quin  and  Macklin,  and  for  many 

years  these  two  giants  of  the  stage — one  so  tenacious 

of  the  old,  artificial  methods,  and  the  other  struggling 
19 


210  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

for  a  freer,  truer  standard  of  acting — were  at  metaphori- 
cal daggers  drawn.  In  old  age  they  became  reconciled, 
yet  they  probably  never  forgot  the  most  absurd  of  all 
their  quarrels,  which  occurred  a  year  or  two  after  the 
death  of  Hallam.  One  night  when  Macklin  came  off 
the  stage  from  playing  Jerry  Blackacre  in  the  Plain 
Dealer^  Quin,  who  was  doing  Captain  Manly ^  reproached 
him  for  trying  to  dominate  the  scene  and  obtaining  the 
attention  of  the  audience  at  the  expense  of  the  other 
performers.  "Well,  sir,"  said  Macklin  in  narrating 
the  affair  half  a  centur>^  later,  * '  I  told  him  that  I  did 
not  mean  to  disturb  him  by  my  acting,  but  to  show  off  a 
little  myself.  Well,  sir,  in  the  other  scenes  I  did  the 
same,  and  made  the  audience  laugh  incontinently,  and 
he  scolded  me  again,  sir.  I  made  the  same  apology, 
but  the  surly  fellow  would  not  be  appeased.  Again, 
sir,  however,  I  did  the  same  ;  and  when  I  returned  to 
the  greenroom  he  abused  me  like  a  pickpocket,  and 
said  I  must  leave  off  my  damned  tricks.  I  told  him  I 
could  not  play  otherwise.  He  said  I  could,  and  I 
should.  Upon  which,  sir,  egad  !  I  said  to  him  flatly, 
*  you  lie  ! '  He  was  chewing  an  apple  at  this  moment ; 
and  spitting  the  contents  into  his  hand,  he  threw  them 
into  my  face. 

*'  It  is  a  fact,  sir  !  Well,  sir,  I  went  up  to  him  di- 
rectly (for  I  was  a  great  boxing  cull  in  those  days)  and 
pushed  him  down  into  a  chair  and  pummelled  his  face 
damnably.  He  strove  to  resist  but  he  was  no  match 
for  me  ;  and  I  made  his  face  swell  so  with  the  blows, 


AN  IRISH  SHY  LOCK,  211 

that  he  could  hardly  speak.  When  he  attempted  to  go 
on  with  his  part,  sir,  he  mumbled  so,  that  the  audience 
began  to  hiss.  Upon  which  he  went  forward  and  told 
them,  sir,  that  something  very  unpleasant  had  hap- 
pened, and  that  he  was  really  very  ill.  But,  sir,  the 
moment  I  went  to  strike  him,  there  were  many  noble- 
men in  the  greenroom,  full  dressed,  with  their  swords 
and  large  wigs  (for  the  greenroom  was  a  sort  of  state- 
room then,  sir).  Well,  they  were  all  alarmed,  and 
jumped  upon  the  benches,  waiting  in  silent  amaze- 
ment, till  the  affair  was  over. ' ' 

To  curtail  Macklin's  description  of  the  episode  it 
may  be  added  that  at  the  end  of  the  performance  Quin 
demanded  the  doubtful  sort  of  '  *  satisfaction ' '  that  is 
supposed  to  come  from  the  code  of  honor,  but  through 
the  entreaties  of  Fleetwood,  who  had  no  desire  to  lose 
so  valuable  an  actor  as  the  fuming  challenger,  the 
matter  was  settled  peaceably  by  an  apologj^  from  Mack- 
lin.  The  latter  could  afford  to  offer  one  with  good 
grace,  for  he  had  inflicted  a  glorious  thumping  on  his 
hated  rival.  It  was  that  rival  who  once  said  of  Mack- 
lin,  when  it  was  remarked  that  the  Irishman  had 
strong  lines  in  his  face,  "  I^ines,  sir  !  I  see  nothing  in 
the  fellow's  face  but  a  damned  deal  of  cordage.''' 

But  let  us  leave  all  this  interesting  pettiness  and 
come  down  to  the  year  1741,  when  Macklin,  who  by 
this  time  had  blossomed  out  into  an  unquestioned  pop- 
ular favorite,  would  put  forth  a  Shy  lock  radically  differ- 
ent from  the  comic  Jeza  of  the  red  wig  type  to  which 


212^  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

theatre-goers  had  been  accustomed.  He  had  long 
debated,  no  doubt,  on  the  dramatic  possibilities  and 
seriousness  of  the  role,  and  the  absurdity  of  regarding 
it  as  material  for  merry-making,  and  finally  he  induced 
Fleetwood  to  revive  the  real  Merchant  of  Venice^  which 
had  long  been  superseded  by  I^ord  I^ansdowne's  adap- 
tation known  as  The  Jew  of  Venice.  In  the  latter,  an 
unnecessary  version  of  a  noble  original,  the  inimitable 
Dogget  had  once  upon  a  time  represented  Shylock  from 
a  low-comedy  standpoint,  to  the  great  amusement  and 
edification  of  the  groundlings,  and  in  later  years  the 
frolicksome  Clive  played  Portia  after  the  manner  of  a 
stage  chambermaid,  and  took  such  liberties  with  the 
character  that  she  even  mimicked  well-known  lawyers 
in  the  trial  scene.  Strange  to  say,  it  was  this  rompish 
actress  who  did  Portia  on  the  memorable  night  when 
Macklin  revolutionized  the  public  conception  of  the 
usurious /(?ze^. 

While  the  rehearsals  were  in  progress  it  began  to  be 
whispered  around  that  Macklin  intended  to  spring  a 
very  dangerous  innovation  on  the  management  of 
Drury  I^ane ;  the  amiable  Quin  (who  was  cast  for  An- 
tonio^, predicted  that  the  new  Shylock  would  be  hissed 
oiF  the  stage,  and  Fleetwood,  becoming  alarmed,  tried 
to  abandon  the  production  altogether.  But  Macklin 
never  faltered  in  his  purpose,  and  held  the  manager  to 
his  promise,  so  on  the  evening  of  St.  Valentine's  Day 
the  frequenters  of  Drury  lyane  had  the  pleasure  of  as- 
sisting at  one  of  the  most  historical  of  all  the  important 


AN  IRISH  SHYLOCK.  213 

performances  in  the  eighteenth  century.  I^et  us  quote 
the  actor  himself  as  to  the  outcome  of  his  risky  experi- 
ment. 

''The  long-expected  night  at  last  arrived,  and  the 
house  was  crowded  from  top  to  bottom  with  the  first 
company  in  town.  The  two  front  rows  of  the  pit  as 
usual  were  full  of  critics,  who,  Sir,  I  eyed  through  the 
slit  of  curtain,  and  was  glad  to  see  them,  as  I  wished 
in  such  a  cause  to  be  tried  by  a  special  jury.  When  I 
made  my  appearance  in  the  greenroom,  dressed  for  the 
part,  with  my  red  hat  on  my  head,  my  piqued  beard, 
loose  black  gown,  etc.,  and  with  a  confidence  which  I 
never  before  assumed,  the  performers  all  stared  at  one 
another,  and  evidently  with  a  stare  of  disappointment. 
Well,  sir,  hitherto  all  was  right  till  the  last  bell 
rung  ;  then,  I  confess,  my  heart  began  to  beat  a  little. 
However,  I  mustered  up  all  the  courage  I  could,  and, 
recommending  my  cause  to  Providence,  threw  myself 
boldly  on  the  stage,  and  was  received  by  one  of 
the  loudest  thunders  of  applause  I  ever  before  experi- 
enced. 

' '  The  opening  scenes  being  rather  tame  and  level, 
I  could  not  expect  much  applause,  but  I  found  myself 
well  listened  to.  I  could  hear  distinctly  in  the  pit  the 
words  *  Very  well — very  well  indeed  !  This  man  seems 
to  know  what  he  is  about,'  etc.,  etc.  These  encomiums 
warmed  me,  but  did  not  overset  me.  I  knew  where  I 
should  have  the  pull,  which  was  in  the  third  act,  and 
reserved  myself  accordingly.     At  this  period  I  threw 


214  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

out  all  my  fire,  and,  as  the  contrasted  passions  of  joy 
for  the  Merchant's  losses,  and  grief  for  the  elopement 
oi  Jessica,  o^^w  a  fine  field  for  an  actor's  powers,  I  had 
the  good  fortune  to  please  beyond  my  warmest  expec- 
tations. The  whole  house  was  in  an  uproar  of  ap- 
plause, and  I  was  obliged  to  pause  between  the  speeches 
to  give  it  vent,  so  as  to  be  heard, 

*'  When  I  went  behind  the  scenes  after  this  act,  the 
manager  met  me  and  complimented  me  very  highly  on 
my  performance,  and  significantly  added  :  '  Macklin, 
you  was  right  at  last.'  My  brethren  in  the  greenroom 
joined  in  this  eulogium,  but  with  different  views.  He 
was  thinking  of  the  increase  of  his  treasury  ;  they, 
only  for  saving  appearances,  wishing  at  the  same  time 
that  I  had  broke  my  neck  in  the  attempt.  The  trial 
scene  wound  up  the  fulness  of  my  reputation.  Here  I 
was  well  listened  to ;  and  here  I  made  such  a  silent 
yet  forcible  impression  on  my  audience,  that  I  retired 
from  this  great  attempt  most  perfectly  satisfied.  On 
my  return  to  the  greenroom  after  the  play  was  over 
it  was  crowded  with  nobility  and  critics,  who  all  com- 
plimented me  in  the  warmest  and  most  unbounded 
manner,  and  the  situation  I  felt  myself  in,  I  must  con- 
fess, was  one  of  the  most  flattering  and  intoxicating 
of  my  whole  life.  No  money,  no  title  could  purchase 
what  I  felt.  And  let  no  man  tell  me  after  this  what 
Fame  will  not  inspire  a  man  to  do,  and  how  far  the  at- 
tainment of  it  will  not  remunerate  his  greatest  labors. 
By  G — d,  sir,  though  I  was  not  worth  fifty  pounds  in 


AN  IRISH  SHY  LOCK,  21$ 

the  world  at  that  time,  yet,  let  me  tell  you,  I  was 
Charles  the  Great  for  that  night." 

Thus,  at  one  bound,  Macklin  reached  a  command- 
ing position  on  the  stage,  added  to  his  repertoire  a 
character  which  he  would  exploit  successfully,  at 
intervals,  for  the  next  half  century,  and  showed  the 
conservative  British  public  that  ''the  Jew  that 
Shakespeare  drew"  should  be  played  as  a  malevo- 
lent, passionate  creature,  and  not  as  a  semi-buffoon 
from  whom  the  unthinking  might  extract  many  a 
hearty  guffaw. 

The  Merchant  of  Venice  drew  crowded  houses  for 
twenty-one  nights,  while  noblemen,  critics,  and  the 
general  theatre-goers  vied  with  one  another  in  prais- 
ing the  iconoclastic  Macklin,  who  must  have  felt  by 
this  time  that  nothing  succeeded  so  well  as  success. 
The  dramatic  force  and  almost  ferocious  attributes  of 
his  Shy  lock  soon  enlisted  the  royal  attention  of  his  very 
German  Majesty  George  II.,  who  went  to  see  the  per- 
formance, and  was  made  so  nervous  by  its  realism  that 
he  hardly  slept  the  whole  of  that  night.  * '  In  the  morn- 
ing," according  to  the  actor  Bernard,  "  the  Premier,  Sir 
Robert  Walpole,  waited  on  the  King,  to  express  his 
fears  that  the  Commons  would  oppose  a  certain  meas- 
ure then  in  contemplation.  '  I  wish,  your  Majesty,' 
said  Sir  Robert,  '  it  was  possible  to  find  a  recipe  for 
frightening  a  House  of  Commons.'  'What  do  you 
think,'  replied  the  King,  *  of  sending  them  to  the  the- 
atre to  see  that  Irishman  play  Shy  lock  .^ '  " 


2l6  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

The  enthusiasm  over  the  Merchant  of  Venice  might 
have  been  turned  to  good  account  by  Fleetwood,  but 
that  worthy,  having  apparently  made  up  his  mind  to 
ruin  himself  and  his  theatre  as  fast  as  circumstances 
would  allow,  went  on  gambling  and  borrowing  to 
make  good  his  loSvSes,  getting  into  debt  right  and  left, 
leaving  his  actors'  wages  unpaid,  and  generally  behav- 
ing in  a  way  to  scandalize  all  decent  men  who  had  any 
dealings  with  him.  Affairs  finally  got  so  bad  that 
Garrick,  by  this  time  a  very  important  member  of  the 
company,  proposed  that  the  players  should  leave  Fleet- 
wood and  his  house  in  a  body,  it  being  hoped  that  the 
I^ord  Chamberlain,  otherwise  the  Duke  of  Grafton, 
would  grant  them  permission  to  start  a  separate  theat- 
rical establishment  of  their  own.  After  some  objection 
from  Macklin,  the  plan  was  adopted,  and  a  petition 
setting  forth  the  grievances  and  desires  of  the  actors 
brought  to  the  attention  of  the  Duke.  The  latter, 
however,  had  no  very  high  opinion  of  the  '  *  profes- 
sion," and  when  he  heard  that  Garrick  received  a 
salary  of  five  hundred  pounds  a  year  his  Grace  was 
horrified  at  the  fellow's  presumption  in  wanting  an 
increase.  Oliver  Twist  asking  for  more  gruel  must 
have  been  modesty  itself  compared  to  so  audacious  a 
suggestion.  Grafton  doubtless  thought  that  the  com- 
pensation of  Garrick' s  was  just  five  hundred  pounds 
of  honest  money  wasted,  and,  indeed,  he  said  to  him  : 
**And  this  j^ou  think  too  little,  whilst  I  have  a  son, 
who  is  heir  to  my  title  and  estate,  venturing  his  life 


AN  IRISH  SHY  LOCK.  21/ 

daily  for  his  King  and  country  at  much  less  than  half 
that  sum." 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  the  happy  possessor  of  so 
precious  a  son  refused  to  grant  the  petition,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  all  the  players  had  returned  to  the  fold 
of  the  erratic  Fleetwood,  barring  the  obstinate  Macklin. 
The  great  Shylock  had  been  loth  to  enter  into  the  revolt, 
but  once  that  he  did  he  resolved  to  hold  out  for  good 
and  all,  with  the  result  that  he  became  persona  non 
grata  to  the  triumphant  manager.  Garrick,  in  negoti- 
ating for  the  return  of  the  company,  secured  for  him- 
self the  much-longed-for  raise  in  his  own  salary,  but 
no  one  else  seemingly  benefited  in  any  way  by  the 
cessation  of  hostilities,  and  the  unfortunate  Macklin 
found  himself  very  much  in  the  cold.  In  the  mean- 
time a  Strong  party  was  raised  up  in  favor  of  the  exile, 
whose  banishment,  it  was  considered,  and  probably 
with  reason,  might  be  directly  traced  to  the  desire  of 
Garrick  to  take  care  of  himself  and  allow  his  Satanic 
Majesty  to  look  after  the  ''hindmost"  of  the  party. 
When  little  Davy  made  his  reappearance  at  Drury 
Lane  the  excitement  was  intense  ;  he  was  greeted  with 
hisses,  groans,  cat-calls,  and  showers  of  peas,  eggs, 
and  apples,  but  he  held  his  own  and  in  a  few  days  the 
too-zealous  friends  of  Macklin  had  to  own  that  they 
could  accomplish  nothing  for  their  favorite. 

By  no  means  downcast,  the  masterful  subject  of  all 
this  misplaced  agitation  organized  a  company  of  his 
own,  comprising,  for  the  most  part,  the  veriest  novices 


2l8  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

in  dramatic  art,  and  after  putting  them  through  a  deal 
of  training  he  managed  to  secure  the  Haymarket  Tliea- 
tre,  which  he  opened  in  February,  1744.  This  piece 
of  enterprise,  which  soon  died  a  natural  death,  exerted 
an  important  influence  on  Macklin's  life,  in  that  it  gave 
him  the  idea,  which  he  afterward  followed  out  so  suc- 
cessfully, of  coaching  young  aspirants.  John  O'Keefe 
gives  an  entertaining  account  of  how  the  veteran,  a 
number  of  years  later,  instructed  two  of  his  pupils. 
Miss  Ambrose  and  Mr.  Glenville.  Macklin  was  then 
living  in  Dublin,  and  O'Keefe  relates  : 

'*  In  Macklin's  garden  there  were  three  long  parallel 
walks,  and  his  method  of  exercising  their  voices  was 
thus  :  his  two  young  pupils  with  back-boards  (such  as 
they  use  in  boarding-schools)  walked  firmly,  slow  and 
well  up  and  down  the  two  side- walks  ;  Macklin  himself 
paraded  the  centre  walk.  At  the  end  of  every  twelve 
paces  he  made  them  stop  ;  and  turning  gracefully,  the 
young  actor  called  out  across  the  walk,  '  How  do  you 
do.  Miss  Ambrose  ? '  She  answered,  '  Very  well,  I 
thank  you,  Mr.  Glenville  !  '  They  then  took  a  few 
more  paces  and  the  next  question  was,  '  Do  you  not 
think  it  a  very  fine  day,  Mr.  Glenville  ? '  *  A  very  fine 
day,  indeed.  Miss  Ambrose  ! '  was  the  answer.  Their 
walk  continued  and  then,  '  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Glen- 
ville ? '  *  Pretty  well,  I  thank  you.  Miss  Ambrose  ! ' 
And  this  exercise  continued  for  an  hour  or  so  (Macklin 
still  keeping  in  the  centre  walk)  in  the  full  hearing  of 
their  religious  next-door  neighbors.     Such  was  Mack- 


AN  IRISH  SHY  LOCK,  219 

lin's  method  of  training  the  management  of  the  voice  ; 
if  too  high,  too  low,  a  wrong  accent,  or  a  faulty  inflec- 
tion, he  immediately  noticed  it,  and  made  them  repeat 
the  words  twenty  times  till  all  was  right. ' ' 

In  December,  1744,  when  Drury  Lanehad  fallen  into 
new  hands  and  Fleetwood  had  taken  himself  out  of 
England  to  escape  his  many  creditors,  Macklin  re-ap- 
peared there,  to  the  great  satisfaction  of  the  town. 
Soon  he  tries  his  hand  at  play-writing.  Then  he  is 
acting  under  the  management  of  Garrick  and  James 
Lacy,  and  we  hear  grotesque  stories  of  his  living  in 
Bow  Street  lodgings,  in  company  with  the  former  and 
delightful  Peg  Woffington,  all  three  sharing  in  a  com- 
mon purse  and  behaving  generally  in  a  curiously 
unconventional  fashion.  Next  he  visits  Ireland,  soon 
quarrels  with  Thomas  Sheridan,  the  manager  of  the 
Smock  Alley  Theatre  in  Dublin,  returns  to  England, 
and  joins  the  Covent  Garden  forces  under  Rich.  Now 
he  has  congenial  work  in  bringing  before  the  public 
his  talented  daughter  Mary,  an  actress  who  could  play 
anything  from  Ophelia  to  a  young  man's  part,  and 
whose  singing  and  dancing  were  always  the  object 
of  much  admiration.  Her  father  spent  a  great  deal 
of  money  on  her  preliminary  education,  having  her 
instructed  in  many  polite  accomplishments  that  were 
regarded  quite  de  rigeur  in  those  days,  but  when  she 
came  to  die,  in  1 781,  it  was  found  that  she  had  willed 
her  modest  fortune  away  from  the  old  man. 

The  year  1754  witnessed  the  putting  into  effect  by 


220  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

Macklin  of  one  of  the  wildest  and  most  impossible  of 
schemes  imaginable — nothing  less  indeed,  than  setting 
himself  up  in  Hart  street,  Covent  Garden,  as  a  tavern- 
keeper.  Here  he  expected  to  make  a  fortune  by- 
attracting  to  the  place  a  host  of  brilliant  men,  who, 
after  dining  at  his  ordinary,  would  listen  to  a  lecture 
by  the  ex-actor.  This  remarkable  enterprise,  to  which 
he  gave  the  imposing  name  of  "The  British  Inquisi- 
tion," came  to  an  ignominious  end,  as  might  have 
been  expected,  with  the  bankruptcy  of  the  projector. 

But  the  vScope  of  this  unpretentious  volume  will  not 
admit  of  a  complete  narrative  of  Macklin' s  life,  how- 
ever interesting  are  its  varied  and  oft-times  vStirring 
incidents.  That  *' sour- face  dog,"  as  Fielding  once 
called  him,  lived  to  drag  out  a  painful  old  age,  rendered 
pathetic  by  his  constant  struggles  to  keep  on  the  boards 
in  spite  of  failing  memory,  and  thus  escape  the  misery 
of  actual  want.*  We  may  pass  over  this  time  of  men- 
tal decay,  and  content  ourselves,  by  way  of  conclusion, 
with  William  Cooke's  description  of  the  old  warrior's 
last  appearance  on  an  earthly  stage.  It  was  in  May, 
1789,   when   he   was   cast   for  the   perennial    Shylock, 

*' When  Macklin  had  dressed  himself  for  the  part, 
which  he  did  with  his  usual  accuracy,  he  went  into  the 
greenroom,  but  with  such  a  '  lack-lustre  looking  eye ' 

*  It  is  cheerful  to  note,  however,  that  the  last  four  years 
of  Macklin's  life  were  made  comparatively  comfortable  by  the 
receipt  of  an  annuity.  It  was  purchased  for  him  after  the  pub- 
lication of  his  two  plays,  the  Man  of  the  World  and  Love  d,  la 
Mode,  had  yielded  ^^1500. 


AN  IRISH  SHY  LOCK.  221 

as  plainly  indicated  his  inability  to  perfonn,  and  com- 
ing up  to  the  late  Mrs.  Pope,  said,  *  My  dear,  are  you 
to  play  to-night  ?  '  '  Good  God  !  to  be  sure  I  am,  sir. 
Why,  don't  you  see  I  am  dressed  for  Portia  f  '  '  Ah  ! 
very  true  ;  I  had  forgot.  But,  who  is  to  play  Shy  lock  f 
The  imbecile  tone  of  his  voice,  and  the  inanity  of  the 
look,  with  which  the  last  question  was  asked,  caused  a 
melancholy  sensation  in  all  who  heard  it.  At  last  Mrs. 
Pope,  rousing  herself,  said  *  Why,  you,  to  be  sure  ;  are 
you  not  dressed  for  the  part  ?  '  He  then  seemed  to  rec- 
ollect himself  and,  putting  his  hand  to  his  head,  ex- 
claimed '  God  help  me  !  My  memory,  I  am  afraid,  has 
left  me.'  He,  however,  after  this  went  on  the  stage, 
delivered  two  or  three  speeches  of  Shylock  in  a  manner 
that  evidently  proved  he  did  not  understand  what  he 
was  repeating.  After  a  while  he  recovered  himself  a 
little,  and  seemed  to  make  an  effort  to  rouse  himself, 
but  in  vain  ;  nature  could  assist  him  no  further ;  and, 
after  pausing  some  time  as  if  considering  what  to  do, 
he  then  came  forward  and  informed  the  audience, 
*  That  he  now  found  he  was  unable  to  proceed  in  the 
part,  and  hoped  they  would  accept  Mr.  Ryder  *  as  his 
substitute,  who  was  already  prepared  to  finish  it.'  The 
audience  accepted  his  apology  with  a  mixed  applause 
of  indulgence  and  commiseration,  and  he  retired  from 

the  stage  forever." 

*  His  understudy. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


"  \  lyly  the  run  is  now  after  Garrick,  a  wine  mer- 
/V  chant,  who  is  turned  player,  at  Goodman's 
Fields.  He  plays  all  parts  and  is  a  very  good  mimic. 
His  acting  I  have  seen  and  may  say  to  you,  who  will 
not  say  it  again  here,  I  see  nothing  wonderful  in  it ; 
but  it  is  heresy  to  say  so. ' ' 

Thus  wrote,  in  1742,  the  observant  but  cynical  Hor- 
ace Walpole,  who  could  never  see  much  to  wonder  at  in 
anything,  and  who,  doubtless,  thought  he  was  dealing 
liberally  by  Mr.  Garrick  in  allowing  him  to  be  a  *  *  very 
good  mimic."  For  an  ex- wine-merchant  this  was  gen- 
erous praise. 

The  mimic  who  had  excited  the  momentary  attention 
of  this  most  entertaining  of  gossips  had  come  up  to 
I^ondon  from  I^itchfield  in  company  with  his  tutor, 
gruff  young  Samuel  Johnson,  in  the  year  1736,  with 
the  intention  of  completing  his  studies  under  a  Rev. 
Mr.  Colson  and  ultimately  practising  at  the  bar.  His 
arrival  was  preceded  by  several  letters  to  the  clergyman 
from  an  influential  functionary  of  Litchfield,  Gilbert 
Walmsley,  who  wrote  :   "  My  neighbor,  Captain  Gar- 

222 


DAVID  QARRICK. 


AFTER  A  PAINTING  BY  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS.       FROM  AN  ENGRAVING  BY 
W.    H.   WORTHINGTON. 


'*  A   VERY  GOOD  MIMIcr  223 

rick  *  (who  is  an  honest  valuable  man)  has  a  son  who 
is  a  very  sensible  young  fellow,  and  a  good  scholar,  and 
whom  the  Captain  hopes,  in  some  two  or  three  years, 
he  shall  be  able  to  send  to  the  Temple,  and  breed  to  the 
Bar.  But,  at  present,  his  pocket  will  not  hold  out  for 
sending  him  to  the  University.  I  have  proposed  you 
taking  him,  if  you  think  well  of  it,  and  your  boarding 
him,  and  instructing  him  in  mathematics,  and  philoso- 
phy, and  humane  learning.  He  is  now  nineteen,  of 
sober  and  good  dispositions,  and  is  as  ingenious  and 
promising  a  young  man  as  ever  I  knew  in  my  life." 
And  in  a  subsequent  letter  Walmsley  announces  that 
Davy  "  and  another  neighbor  of  mine,  one  Mr.  John- 
son, set  out  this  morning  for  I^ondon  together  ;  Davy 
to  be  with  you  early  the  next  week  ;  and  Mr.  Johnson 
to  try  his  fate  with  a  tragedy,  and  to  see  to  get  himself 
employed  in  some  translation,  either  from  the  I^atin  or 
the  French.  Johnson  is  a  very  good  scholar  and  poet, 
and  I  have  great  hopes  will  turn  out  a  fine  tragedy 
writer. ' ' 

How  differently  things  were  to  turn  out.  Garrick 
would  be  the  one  to  * '  try  his  fate ' '  with  tragedy — and 
comedy  as  well,  and  the  learned  Johnson,  though  he 

*  Captain  Garrick,  who  held  a  commission  in  the  King's 
army,  was  the  grandson  of  a  French  Protestant  of  that  name 
who  settled  in  England  after  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of 
Nantes.  The  Captain  married  the  daughter  of  a  Litchfield  vi- 
car, and  David  was  born  in  1716  in  the  Angel  Inn  at  Hereford, 
where  the  father  of  the  future  Roscius  was  then  stationed  as  a 
recruiting  officer. 


224  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

might  try  his  hand  at  play-writing,  would  live  to  culti- 
vate a  strongly  expressed  if  hardly  sincere  aversion  for 
everything  connected  with  the  stage.  Young  Garrick, 
to  be  sure,  had  already  imbibed  a  love  for  the  theatre  ; 
he  had  been  in  L<ondon  before,  had  there  seen  Macklin 
and  the  stilted  Quin,  and  his  heart  could  never  be  in 
the  dry-as-dust  volumes  that  he  was  required  to  pore 
over  as  preparation  for  the  prosaic  law.  Soon  an  uncle, 
(to  see  whom  he  had  once  made  a  trip  to  Lisbon,)  con- 
veniently died  and  left  him  a  thousand  pounds,  then 
came  the  taking  off  of  his  father,  the  Captain,  and 
Garrick,  soon  emerging  from  under  the  paternal  wing 
of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Colson,  abandoned  the  classic  atmos- 
phere of  philosophy  and  legal  lore  for  the  less  exalted 
air  of  the  wine  cellar.  In  other  words  David  and  his 
brother  Peter  went  into  business  as  wine-merchants, 
and  Foote,  the  mimic  and  comedian,  would  relate  in 
after  years  how  the  future  actor  thought  he  really  was 
a  wine-merchant  because  he  kept  three  quarts  of  vine- 
gar in  the  cellar. 

But  whatever  the  Garrick  vaults  contained,  it  is  cer- 
tain that  one  of  the  partners  took  no  interest  in  them, 
fortunately  for  posterity,  for  the  very  man  who  was  to 
become  so  avaricious  as  to  chide  that  Irish  sorceress, 
Peg  Woffington,  for  wasting  his  tea,  refused  to  settle 
down  into  the  humdrum  existence  of  a  liquor- flavored 
life  in  Durham  Yard.  While  the  plodding  Peter  at- 
tended to  the  affairs  of  the  firm  David's  mind  was  far 
away,  wondering  what  the  Drury  Lane  company  would 


*' A   VERY  GOOD  MIMICr  22$ 

play  next,  or  dreaming,  perhaps,  that  he  were  himself 
the  hero  of  this  very  house,  as,  indeed,  it  shortly  came 
to  pass.  But  irregular  ways  and  the  building  of  air 
castles,  did  not  harmonize  very  successfully  with  the 
selling  of  stimulants,  so  the  partnership  was  soon  dis- 
solved, and  David  now  joyfully  turned  his  attention 
towards  that  consuming  ambition  to  shine  on  the  stage 
— an  ambition  which  had  possessed  him  ever  since  his 
school-boy  days,  when  he  electrified  the  good  people  of 
Litchfield  by  superintending  a  performance  of  The  Re- 
cruiting Officer  and  playing  Sergeant  Kite  with  wonder- 
ful grace  and  vivacity.  The  last  obstacle  in  his  way, 
the  natural  objections  of  a  mother  who  shared  in  the 
customary  prejudices  of  her  time,  had  been  removed 
by  the  recent  death  of  that  amiable  lady,  and  as  Thomas 
Davies  says  in  his  memoirs  of  Garrick  :  "  Mr.  Garrick 
now  found  himself  free  from  all  restraint,  and  in  a  situa- 
tion to  indulge  himself  in  his  darling  passion  for  act- 
ing, from  which  nothing  but  his  tenderness  for  so  dear 
a  relation  as  a  mother  had  hitherto  restrained  him." 

It  may  be  doing  Garrick  an  injustice  to  say  so,  but 
it  is  quite  possible  that  even  this  obstacle  would  not 
have  interfered  very  materially  with  the  plans  of  a 
youth  who,  with  all  his  charm,  grace  of  manner,  genius 
and  lovableness  had  a  peculiar  streak  of  selfishness  and 
shrewdness  in  his  curiously  complex  character.  To  be 
sure,  Dibdin  declared  him  to  be  "  an  actor,  a  complete 
actor  and  nothing  but  an  actor,"  whether  on  or  off"  the 

stage,  alone  or  in  company,  '*  or  about  whatever  study, 
15 


226  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

occupation  or  pursuit, ' '  but  David  was  never  so  much 
the  actor  as  to  forget  his  own  interests,  and  while  he 
had  the  divine  afflatus  he  also  showed  the  instincts  and 
cold-blooded  virtues  of  a  man  of  the  world.  Macklin, 
who  knew  him  well,  perhaps  spoke  half  truly,  if  bit- 
terly, when  he  said  of  the  great  player  that  "  to  friend- 
ship with  man,  or  love  and  friendship  with  woman,  he 
never  was  disposed,  for  love  of  himself  always  forbid 
it." 

Soon  after  Garrick's  retirement  from  the  unclassic 
precincts  of  hogsheads  and  wine  casks  we  hear  of  him 
fraternizing  with  the  best  known  of  the  London  actors, 
cultivating  the  managers  and  others  most  likely  to  be 
of  service  to  him,  studying  and  reciting  passages  from 
popular  plays  and  even  posing,  occasionally,  as  a  dra- 
matic critic  for  the  public  prints.  In  the  latter  capac- 
ity, we  are  told,  he  generally  indulged  in  "judicious 
observations  and  shrewd  remarks,  unmixed  with  that 
gross  illiberality  which  often  disgraces  the  instructions 
of  modern  stage  critics. ' '  The  next  and  by  far  the  more 
important  step  was  his  appearance  at  Ipswich,  in  the 
summer  of  1741,  in  a  company  under  the  direction  of 
Messrs.  Giffard  and  Dunstall.  He  was  not  quite  sure 
of  himself  as  yet,  and  did  not  wish  to  have  the  name  of 
Garrick  associated  with  failure,  so  he  chose  ' '  Mr.  Lyd- 
dal  "  for  a  noni  de  theatre.  It  was  as  Lyddal,  therefore, 
that  he  made  his  debut  in  the  character  of  Aboan,  in 
the  still  popular  drama  of  Oroo7ioko,  delighting  the 
audiences  of  commonplace  Ipswich  (who  in  after  years 


"A   VERY  GOOD  MIMIC*  227 

claimed  that  they  had  discovered  the  new  Roscius)  with 
this  and  other  impersonations. 

Even  at  this  early  stage  of  his  career  one  detects 
the  remarkable  versatility  of  the  man,  for  during  his 
stay  here  he  not  o\Ay  played  the  sorely  tried  Aboan,^ 
the  dashing  Sir  Harry  Wildair,  and  other  contrasting 
roles,  but  he  actually  scored  a  success  as  Harleqimi. 
Garrick  had  from  the  first  a  genius  for  depicting  a  va- 
riety of  emotions  from  the  most  tragic  to  the  broadly 
farcical,  so  that  whether  he  lent  sublimity  to  King 
Lear,  put  new  life  into  some  genteel  comedy  role,  or 
appeared  in  a  character  of  the  roughly  humorous 
order,  where  his  wonderful  mimetic  talents  came  into 
full  play,  he  nearly  always  seemed  peculiarly  fitted  by 
voice,  gesture,  look,  and  acting  for  whatever  character 
he  happened  to  be  portraying  at  the  time.  In  after 
years  he  would,  on  rare  and  ever- to-be  remembered  oc- 
casions, indulge  his  friends  with  what  he  called  his 
rounds,  **  This  he  did  by  standing  behind  a  chair,  and 
conveying  into  his  face  every  kind  of  passion,  blend- 
ing one  into  the  other,  and  as  it  were  shadowing 
them  with  a  prodigious  number  of  gradations.  At  one 
moment  3^ou  laughed,  at  another  you  cried  ;  now  he 
terrified  you,  and  presently  you  conceived  yourself 
something  horrible,  he  seemed  so  terrified  at  you.  Af- 
terward he  drew  his  features  into  the  appearance  of 

*  Garrick  chose  this  character  for  his  d^but  so  that  he  might 
appear  with  a  blackened  face,  and  thus  escape  identification  if 
he  made  a  fiasco. 


228  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

such  dignified  wisdom  that  Minerva  might  have  been 
proud  of  the  portrait ;  and  then — degrading,  yet  admir- 
able transition — he  became  a  driveller.  In  short,  his 
face  was  what  he  obliged  you  to  fancy  it — age,  youth, 
plenty,  poverty,  everything  it  assumed."  * 

While  Garrick  continued  to  give  his  Ipswichian  ad- 
mirers a  series  of  performances  the  like  of  which  it  had 
never  before  been  their  pleasure  to  enjoy,  that  fertile 
brain  of  his  was  planning  how  he  should  make  his 
initial  metropolitan  appearance  in  the  autumn,  when 
Messrs.  Giffard  and  Dunstall  were  to  bring  their  com- 
pany for  the  winter  season  to  the  theatre  in  Goodman's 
Fields. t  He  finally  decided  to  begin  his  venture  with 
Richard  III.,  for,  as  he  explained  with  a  canniness 
worthy  of  a  frugal  Scotchman,  "  if  I  should  come  forth 
in  a  hero,  or  any  part  which  is  generally  acted  by  a  tall 
fellow,  I  shall  not  be  offered  a  larger  salary  than  fort}'- 
shillings  per  week. '  *  Indeed,  he  could  not  have  come 
to  a  better  determination  whether  from  an  artistic  or — 
what  seemed  equally  important  to  the  actor — a  finan- 
cial point  of  view.  Then,  as  now,  the  fortunes  of 
Glocester  were  a  source  of  interest  both  to  the  ground- 
lings and  the  critical,  and  there  was  the  further  advan- 
tage, as  Garrick  himself  plainly  said,  of  appearing  in  a 

*  Dibdin. 

t  This  theatre  was  founded  in  1729  by  a  certain  Thomas 
Odell,  much  to  the  scandal  of  many  pious  citizens  in  the 
vicinity.  It  was  subsequently  shut  up,  owing  to  the  objections 
of  the  neighbors,  but  reopened  in  1732  under  Giflfard's  manage- 
ment. 


"A   VERY  GOOD  All  MIC*  229 

part  where  tallness  of  stature  or  heroic  figure  would 
not  be  expected.  For  this  young  giant  of  the  stage 
was  only  a  giant  in  ability  ;  he  was  a  little  fellow  as 
physical  measurement  went  and  in  that  way  at  least 
justified  the  contemptuous  remark  of  old  Gibber  that  he 
was  "  the  completest  little  doll  of  a  figure— the  prettiest 
little  creature."  Then  Gibber  had  no  wish  to  see  any 
good  in  Garrick,  whom  he  foolishly  looked  upon  as  a 
rival  to  his  worthless  son,  Theophilus,  and  even  the 
sting  of  the  description  could  never  blind  one  to  the 
distinction  and  personal  advantages  of  this  "  little  doll." 
He  had,  in  the  first  place,  the  most  expressive  features 
— something  that  once  prompted  the  free-tongued 
Glive*  to  cry  *'  Damn  him,  he  could  act  a  gridiron'' 

*  Clive,  a  thorough  artist  herself,  appreciated  Garrick's 
dramatic  worth  even  better  than  most  of  her  contemporaries. 
*'  In  the  height  of  the  public  admiration  for  you,"  she  writes 
him,  "  when  you  were  never  mentioned  but  as  Garrick  the 
charming  man,  the  fine  fellow,  the  delightful  creature,  both  by 
men  and  ladies,  when  they  were  admiring  everything  you  did, 
and  everything  you  scribbled,  at  this  very  time,  I,  the  Pivy^ 
was  a  living  witness  that  they  did  not  know,  nor  could  they  be 
sensible  of  half  your  perfections.  I  have  seen  you  with  your 
Magic  hammer  in  your  hand  endeavoring  to  beat  your  ideas 
into  the  heads  of  creatures  who  had  none  of  their  own.  I  have 
seen  you  with  lamb-like  patience,  endeavoring  to  make  them 
comprehend  you,  and  I  have  seen  you  when  that  could  not  be 
done — I  have  seen  your  lamb  turned  into  a  Hon  ;  by  this  your 
great  labor  and  pains  the  public  was  entertained  ;  they  thought 
they  all  acted  very  fine  ;  they  did  not  see  you  pull  the  wires." 
Discerning  Clive,  you  would  have  made  a  charming  writer  had 
fate  not  decreed  that  you  should  become  famous  by  reciting 
the  words  of  others  rather  than  your  own.  With  a  lusty  elo- 
quence like  yours,  perhaps  it  was  better  for  your  reputation. 


230  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

— and,  as  Fitzgerald  had  so  graphically  written,  he 
was  **  neatly  and  elegantly  made ;  handsome,  with  a 
French  grace,  yet  combined  with  perfect  manliness. 
His  frame  had  a  surprising  flexibility,  and  even  elas- 
ticity, which  put  all  his  limbs  under  the  most  perfect 
control ;  there  was  an  elegant  freedom  in  every  motion, 
regulated  by  the  nicest  propriety.  His  features  were 
wonderfully  marked  ;  the  eyebrows  well-arched,  as- 
cending and  descending  with  rapid  play  ;  the  mouth 
expressive  and  bold ;  and  the  wonderful  eyes,  bright, 
intelligent,  and  darting  fire." 

The  new  ^/<:^«r^  appeared  in  October,  1741,  at  the 
Goodman's  Fields  theatre  before  a  curious  but  not  over- 
large  audience.*  The  naturalness  of  his  performance 
at  first  startled,  not  to  say  shocked,  the  more  critical 
among  the  spectators,  who  had  been  used  to  a  bom- 
bastic Glocester,  with  plenty  of  theatrical  clap-trap 
but  as  the  play  progressed  and  they  discovered  the 
true  effectiveness  of  the  impersonation  their  half- 
formed  censure  turned  into  the  most  cordial  sort  of 
applause.  So  successful,  indeed,  proved  the  experi- 
ment of  dressing  Richard  in  this  new  guise,  and  so 
pleased  were  the  discriminating  theatre-goers,  that  the 
play  was  repeated  six  times.  The  receipts  were  not 
magnificent,  the  take  for  the  seven  nights  amount- 
ing only  to  ^216  or  ^217  ;  but  as  Garrick  began  to 
be  talked  about,  discussed,  praised,  or  objected  to,  the 

*  He  was  billed  as  **  A  Gentleman  (who  never  appeared  on 
any  stage)." 


October  igih,  1741. 

GOODMAN'S  FIELDS. 

At  the  late  Theatre  in  Goodman's  Fields,  this  Day  will  be  performed, 

A  Concert  of  Vocal  and  Instrumental  Mimic, 

DIVIDED  INTO  TWO  PARTS. 

TICKETS    AT    THREE,    TWO,    AND    ONE    SHILLING. 

Places  for  the  Boxes  to  be  taken  at  the  Fleece  Tavern,  near  the  Theatre, 

N.  B.  Between  the  Two  Parts  of  the  Concert  will  be  presented  an  Historical  Play,  called  the 
LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF 

Kin^  Richard  the  Third. 

^^  CONTAINING  THE  DISTRESSES  OF  K.  HENRY  VI. 

The  artful  acquisition  of  the  Crown  by  King  Richard, 

TTie  Murder  of  Young  King  Edward  V.  and  his  Brother  in  the  TosKr, 

THE  LANDING  OF  THE  EARL  OF  RICHMOND, 

And  the  Death  of  King  Richard  in  the  memonble  Battle  of  Boiirarth  Field,  being  the  last  that  waa  fought  between  thi  Houses 
of  Yurk  and  Lancaster ;  with  many  other  true  Historical  Paasagei. 

The  Part  of  King  Richard  by  A  GENTLEMAN, 

ftno  never  appeared  on  any  SlapJ, 

King  Henry,  by  Mr.  GIFFARD,  Richmond,  Mr.  MARSHALL, 

Prince  Edward,  by  Miss  HIPPISLEY.  Duke  of  York.  Miu  NAYLOR. 

Duke  of  Buckingham,  Mr.  PATERSON,  Duke  of  Norfolk,  Mr.  BLAiLES,  Lord  Stanley.  Mr.  PAGETT, 

Oiford,  Mr.  VaUGHAN,        Tresjel,  Mr.  W.  GIFFARD.        Catesby.  Mr.  MARR,        Ralcliff.  Mr.  CROFTS. 

Blunt.  Mr.  NAYLOR.        Tyrrel,  Mr.  PUTTENHAM,  Lord  Mayor.  Mr.  DUNSTALL. 

The  Queen,  Mrs.  STEEL.        Ducheai  of  York,  Mrs.  YATES. 

And  the  Part  of  Lady  Anne,    by  Un.  GIFFARD. 

WITR 

Entertainments  of  Dancing, 

By  Mot^s.  FRO  MET  Madame  DUVALT,         and  the  Two  Masters  and  Miss  CRANIER. 

^^^  To  which  will  be  added  a  Ballad  Opera,  of  One  Act,  called 

The  Virgin  tJnvnasUd, 

The  Part  of  Lucy,  by  Miss  HIPPISLEY. 
Both  of  which  will  be  performed  Gratis,  by  Persons  for  their  Divenion. 


The  Concert  u/iU  begin  exactly  at  Six  o'Clock. 


AN   HISTORIC  PLAYBILL. 

FACSIMILE  OF  THE   PROGRAMME   FOR   QARRICK'S   FIRST    LONDON   APPEARANCE. 


"A    VERY  GOOD  MIMICS  23 1 

houses  soon  visibly  increased  in  size,  especially  when 
he  displayed  the  many-sided  qualities  of  his  art  by 
essaying  a  round  of  characters.  One  of  the  latter, 
wherein  he  particularly  caught  the  fancy  of  the  town, 
was  that  of  Bayes  in  The  Rehearsal,  and  his  acting  in 
this  part  had,  according  to  a  story  made  public  many 
years  later,  a  prologue  of  a  rather  serious  nature — 
which  might  have  put  an  untimely  extinguisher  on 
the  new  star.  As  Bayes,  Garrick  was  to  caricature 
some  of  his  brother  performers,  and  he  proposed 
to  Giffard  that  he  should  begin  with  that  manager, 
and  thus  prevent  the  other  players  from  grumbling 
because  they  were  burlesqued.  Giffard,  as  the  anec- 
dote runs,  "supposing  that  Garrick  would  only  just 
glance  at  him,  to  countenance  the  mimicry  of  the 
others,  consented,  but  Garrick  hit  him  off  so  truly, 
and  made  him  so  completely  ridiculous,  at  rehearsal, 
that  Giffard,  in  a  rage,  sent  him  a  challenge,  which 
Garrick  accepting,  they  met  the  next  morning,  when 
the  latter  was  wounded  in  the  sword  arm."  So  the 
production  of  The  Rehearsal  had  to  be  postponed  for 
a  few  nights,  "on  account,"  as  officially  announced, 
"  of  the  sudden  indisposition  of  a  principal  performer," 
and  when  Bayes  finally  came  on  the  scene  the  carica- 
ture of  Giffard  had  been  discarded. 

As  Garrick  went  on  adding  new  parts  to  his  reper- 
toire, the  playhouse  in  Goodman's  Fields  was  more 
and  more  patronized  ;  persons  from  all  classes  of  life 
rushed  to  see  the  prodigy,  and  the  carriages   of  the 


232  ECHOES  OF  THE  FLA  Y HO  USE. 

nobility  gave  a  gala  air  to  the  vicinity  of  the  theatre 
whenever  a  performance  was  in  progress.  Drury  I,ane 
and  Covent  Garden  were  practically  deserted.  In  fine, 
Garrick  became  the  fashion,  as  he  deserved  to  be,  (this 
is  more  than  can  be  said  for  some  players  who  are  ele- 
vated to  the  dignity  of  a  fad,)  and  even  the  zealous 
Gibber  had  to  admit  that  there  was  some  merit  in  this 
iconoclastic  young  man  who  had  with  one  blow  of  that 
"magic  hammer,"  immortalized  by  Clive,  destroyed 
the  idols  of  rant,  bombast,  and  unnaturalness.  "  But," 
added  CoUey,  "he  is  not  superior  to  my  son  Theo- 
philus."  At  another  time,  when  the  old  man  was 
deprecating  the  fuss  made  about  Garrick,  the  once 
charming  Bracegirdle,  now  on  the  verge  of  the  grave, 
exclaimed  :  "  Come,  come.  Gibber,  tell  me  if  there  is 
not  something  like  envy  in  your  character  of  this 
young  gentleman  ;  the  actor  who  pleases  everybody 
must  be  a  man  of  merit."  Golley  straightened  himself 
up,  took  a  pinch  of  snuff  to  gain  a  little  time,  and 
finally  said:  "Why,  faith,  Bracy,  I  believe  you  are 
right  ;  the  young  fellow  w  clever." 

Of  all  the  laudation  that  Garrick  ever  received  per- 
haps nothing  sank  more  deeply  or  gratefully  into  his 
heart  than  the  praise  of  Pope.  The  little,  deformed  poet 
was  looked  upon  as  the  very  quintessence  of  taste  and  a 
past  grand  master  in  matters  of  criticism,  and  so  when 
he  actually  condescended  to  go  one  evening  to  see  the 
modern  Richard  the  excitement  in  the  theatre  waxed  in- 
tense. "  When  I  was  told  that  Pope  was  in  the  house," 
Garrick  himself  once  narrated,  *  *  I  instantly  felt  a  pal- 


''A    VERY  GOOD   MIMIC"  233 

pitation  at  my  heart,  a  tumultuous,  not  a  disagreeable 
emotion  in  my  mind.  I  was  then  in  the  prime  of 
youth,  and  in  the  zenith  of  my  theatrical  ambition. 
It  gave  me  a  particular  pleasure  that  Richard  was  my 
character  when  Pope  was  to  see  and  hear  me.  As  I 
opened  my  part,  I  saw  our  little  poetical  hero  dressed 
in  black,  seated  in  a  side  box  near  the  stage,  and  view- 
ing me  with  a  serious  and  earnest  attention.  His  look 
shot  and  thrilled  like  lightning  through  my  frame,  and 
I  had  some  hesitation  in  proceeding  from  anxiety  and 
from  joy.  As  Richard  gradually  blazed  forth,  the 
house  was  in  a  roar  of  applause,  and  the  conspiring 
hand  of  Pope  shadowed  me  with  laurels."  Garrick 
had  every  reason  to  be  delighted  on  that  eventful 
night,  and  to  cap  the  climax  the  famous  poet  turned 
admiringly  to  Lord  Orrery  and  said,  with  the  empha- 
sis of  the  Delphic  Oracle:  "That  young  man  never 
had  his  equal  as  an  actor,  and  he  will  never  have  a 
rival. ' '  *     Was  he  a  true  prophet  ? 

During  this  period  Garrick  produced  his  own  farce 
of  The  Lying  Valet,  acted  the  Ghost  in  Hamlet,  Fon- 
dlewife  in  the  Old  Bachelor,  and  Costar  Pearmain  in 
the  Recruiting  Officer,  besides  appearing,  on  one  even- 
ing, as  Master  Johnny,  a  fifteen-year  old  lad,  in  Gib- 
ber's farce  of  The  Schoolboy,  and  as  the  aged  Lear. 
This  was  versatility  with  a  vengeance,  but  the  player 
knew  his  own  powers. 

One  of  the  most  sincere  admirers  of  his  perform- 

*  This  was  strong  praise  from  Pope,  who  so  well  remembered 
Betterton  (whose  portrait  he  had  painted). 


234  ECHOES  OF  THE  FLA  YHOUSE, 

ances  happened  to  be  the  Reverend  Thomas  Newton, 
afterwards  more  celebrated  as  Bishop  Newton.  This 
accompHshed  clergyman  had  been  partially  educated 
in  lyitchfield,  a  circumstance  which  made  him  pecu- 
liarly interested  in  his  fellow-townsman's  career,  and 
now  that  he  was  an  assistant  at  St.  George's,  Hanover 
Square,  he  had  an  occasional  opportunity  of  visiting 
Goodman's  Fields.  He  kept  up  a  correspondence  with 
Garrick,  encouraging  him  with  the  warmest  sort  of 
encomiums,  if  any  were  needed,  offering  a  suggestion 
here  and  there,  and  on  at  least  one  occasion  criticising 
him  very  severely.  For  he  writes  in  January,  17^2  : 
*'  I  was  almost  angry  with  you,  to  see  your  name  last 
week  in  the  bills  for  Costar  Pearmain.  I  am  not  fond  of 
your  acting  such  parts  as  Fondlewife^  or  even  Clodio,^  nor 
should  be  of  the  Lying  Valet,  if  it  was  not  of  your 
own  writing.  You  who  are  equal  to  the  greatest  parts, 
strangely  demean  yourself  in  acting  anything  that  is 
low  and  little  ;  and  not  only  I,  but  really  all  who  ad- 
mire you  and  wish  you  well,  that  is  all  who  know  you, 
are  grieved  and  wonder  at  it.  There  are  abundance  of 
people  who  hit  off  low  humor,  and  succeed  in  the 
coxcomb  and  the  buffoon  very  well  ;  but  there  is  scarce 
one  in  an  age  who  is  capable  of  acting  the  hero  in 
Tragedy,  and  the  fine  gentleman  in  Comedy.  All  who 
have  seen  you  say  you  have  talents  for  all  this ;  and 
when  you  can  reap  this  field  of  fame  alone  without  a 
rival,  why  should  you  be  content  with  only  surpassing 
*  In  Love  Makes  a  Man, 


"^   VERY  GOOD  mimic:'  235 

Chapman,*  or  Macklin,  or  young  Gibber?  Though 
you  perform  these  parts  never  so  well,  yet  there  is  not 
half  the  merit  in  excelling  in  them  as  in  the  others. 
If  I  was  an  actor,  surely  I  would  rather  endeavor  to 
be  a  Betterton,  than  a  Nokes,  or  a  Dogget,"  et  cetera, 
et  cetera.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Newton  spoke  plainly,  a  fact 
possibly  due  to  Garrick's  failure  to  provide  him  with 
a  box  for  a  certain  evening.  Even  a  clerical  critic  may 
be  human. 

When  the  season  in  Goodman's  Fields  came  to  an 
end  Garrick  entered  into  an  agreement  with  Fleet- 
Wood,  of  Drury  lyane,  where  he  acted  three  nights, 
and  then  visited  Ireland,  accompanied  by  Peg  Woffing- 
ton.  The  Englishman  was  received  with  the  greatest 
enthusiasm  by  the  Dublinites  ;  the  theatre  was  crowded 
every  night,  despite  the  intense  heat,  and  the  combina- 
tion of  packed  houses,  stifling  atmosphere,  and  hot 
weather  resulted  in  an  epidemic  called  the  ' '  Garrick 
fever"  which  carried  off  a  number  of  his  Irish  admir- 
ers. But  not  even  this  melancholy  incident  could  put 
a  damper  on  the  glory  of  the  engagement,  and  David 
returned  to  England  with  a  plethoric  purse,  an  in- 
creased reputation,  and  an  added  good-humor.  Soon 
he  was  playing  at  Drury  I^ane  in  Otway's  Orphan, 
with  the  celebrated  tragic  actress  Mrs.  Pritchard  (of 
whom  Garrick  remarked  that  she  was  apt  to  blubber 
her   sorrows)  as   Monimia.     This  production  was  de- 

*  An  excellent  comedian  whose  Touchstone  in  As  You  Like 
It  was  considered  a  great  impersonation. 


236       ECHOES  OF  THE  FLA  Y HOUSE, 

signed  as  an  offset  to  a  successful  revival  of  Othello  at 
Covent  Garden,  in  which  Quin  acted  the  Moor  and 
Mrs.  Gibber  signalized  her  return  to  the  stage  by 
playing  Desdemo7ia. 

Mrs.  Gibber,  strangely  enough,  bore  a  remarkable 
personal  resemblance  to  Garrick,  to  whom  she  wrote 
once  upon  a  time,  *'  I  desire  you  always  to  be  my 
lover  upon  the  stage,  and  my  friend  off  of  it."  "When 
very  young, ' '  relates  Davies,  ' '  her  voice  was  so  mel- 
odious that  her  friends  entertained  great  hopes  of  her 
becoming  a  very  excellent  singer  ;  and  I  believe  she 
acted,  when  she  was  about  fourteen  years  of  age,  the 
part  of  Tom  Thumb  in  the  opera  of  that  name,  which 
was  set  to  music  by  her  brother  the  celebrated  Dr. 
Arne,  and  performed  at  the  little  theatre  in  the  Hay- 
market.  She  certainly  made  some  considerable  pro- 
gress in  music,  and  was  occasionally  employed  to  sing 
at  concerts.  When  she  was  married  to  Theophilus 
Gibber,  his  father,  Golley  Gibber,  observed  to  his  son, 
that  though  his  wife's  voice  was  very  pleasing,  and 
she  had  a  good  taste  in  music,  yet  as  she  could  never 
arrive  at  more  than  the  rank  of  a  second-rate  singer, 
her  income  would  be  extremely  limited.  The  old  man 
added,  that  he  had  overheard  her  repeat  a  speech  from 
a  tragedy,  and  he  judged  by  her  manner  that  her  ear 
was  good.  Upon  this  she  became  a  pupil  to  her  father- 
in-law  ;  and  he  publicly  declared  that  he  took  infinite 
pleasure  in  the  instruction  of  so  promising  a  genius. 

,     .     .     Her  great  excellence  consisted  in  that  sim- 


"A   VERY  GOOD  MlMlcr  237 

plicity  which  needed  no  ornament ;  in  that  sensibiUty 
which  despised  all  art.  There  was  in  her  person  little 
or  no  elegance ;  in  her  countenance  a  small  share  of 
beauty  ;  but  nature  had  given  her  such  symmetry  of 
form  and  fine  expression  of  feature,  that  she  preserved 
all  the  appearance  of  youth  long  after  she  had  reached 
to  middle  life.  The  harmony  of  her  voice  was  as 
powerful  as  the  animation  of  her  look.  In  grief  or 
tenderness  her  eyes  looked  as  if  they  were  in  tears  ;  in 
rage  and  despair  they  seemed  to  dart  flashes  of  fire. 
In  spite  of  the  unimportance  of  her  figure,  she  main- 
tained a  dignity  in  her  action  and  a  grace  in  her 
step."* 

But  to  return  to  the  now  all-important  "  Davy." 
The  revival  of  The  Orphan  was  soon  followed  by  his 
performance  of  Hamlet^  a  character  for  which  he  had 
long  been  carefully  preparing  himself,  and  which  he 
had  already  submitted  to  the  approval  of  a  Dublin  au- 
dience. The  new  conception  of  the  Dane  was  received 
by  the  I^ondon  public  with  every  token  of  admiration, 
and  while  at  this  golden  dawn  of  his  fame  anything  that 
the  '  *  little  great  man  ' '  did  was  sure  of  an  enthusiastic 
reception,  it  is  plain  that  his  acting  in  this  deepest  of 
Shakesperian  parts  would  have  commanded  respect 
and  interest  even  under  other  circumstances.  It  is 
recorded  that  **  the  strong  intelligence  of  his  eye,  the 

*  When  Garrick  heard  of  Mrs.  Gibber's  death  he  exclaimed  : 
"Then  Tragedy  is  dead  on  one  side" — that  is  to  say,  among 
women  players. 


238  ECHOES  OF  THE  PL  A  YHOUSE. 

animated  expression  of  his  whole  countenance,  the 
flexibility  of  his  voice,  and  his  spirited  action  riveted 
the  attention  of  an  admiring  audience."  But  whether 
this  was  the  ideal  Hamlet — "there's  the  rub" — is  a 
question  hard  to  settle,  and,  for  the  matter  of  that, 
mankind  will  have  to  assume  a  phenomenal  harmony 
of  opinion  before  the  real  character  of  the  Prince  be- 
comes a  subject  for  agreement. 

Garrick  probably  played  Hamlet  with  a  fine  and  ro- 
mantic spirit  quite  foreign  to  the  traditional  ideas  of 
the  part,  and  with  certain  Gallic  touches  that  can  now 
be  found  in  M.  Mounet-Sully's  picturesque,  though 
somewhat  un-Knglish  characterization.  Indeed,  one 
critic  had  the  temerity  to  write  to  Roscius  complaining 
that  in  spite  of  the  grace  and  justness  of  his  delivery, 
upon  the  whole  he  "acted  the  part  ill."  This  plain- 
spoken  person  went  on  to  say  that  "Instead  of  that 
lovely  unfortunate  creature  in  whose  happiness  the 
reader  so  warmly  interests  himself,  and  whose  misfor- 
fortunes  he  looks  upon  as  his  own,  you  exhibited  a  hot, 
testy  fellow,  forever  flying  into  a  passion,  even  when 
there  was  no  provocation  in  the  world."  Could  it  be 
that  the  subtleties  of  the  melancholy  hero  were  missed  ? 

At  least  one  man  had  no  very  flattering  opinion  of 
Garrick's  Hamlet,  and  that  was  Dr.  Johnson,  whose 
views  on  things  theatrical  were,  at  the  best,  far  from 
optimistic.  "Who,"  asked  the  faithful  Boswell,  hor- 
rified at  his  patron's  assertion  that  a  ballad-singer  is 
a  higher  man  than  an  actor,   "  can  repeat  Hamlet's 


"A   VERY  GOOD  MIMIC"  239 

soliloquy  '  To  be  or  not  to  be  '  as  Garrick  does  it  ?  " 
— ^Johnson  :  ' '  Anybody  may.  Jemmj-  there  (a  boy 
about  eight  years  old  who  was  in  the  room)  will  do  it 
as  well  in  a  week.—"  Boswell  :  ''  No,  no,  sir  ;  and  as  a 
proof  of  the  merit  of  great  acting,  and  of  the  value 
which  mankind  set  upon  it,  Garrick  has  got  ^100,000  " 
— ^Johnson  :  *  *  Is  getting  ^100,000  a  proof  of  excellence  ? 
That  has  been  done  by  a  scoundrel  commissary." 

We  may  pass  over  several  incidents  in  Garrick' s 
early  career,  such  as  the  break  and  ultimate  reconcilia- 
tion with  Fleetwood,  of  which  poor  Macklin  became 
the  scapegoat.  When  Fleetwood's  affairs  assumed  so 
wretched  a  condition  that  he  had  to  leave  Drury  lyane, 
and  the  house  came  under  new  management,  the  pru- 
dent David  concluded  to  tempt  fortune  once  again 
among  the  Irish,  partly  moved  thereto  because  the 
Jacobite  uprising  of  '45  threatened  to  keep  lyondon  in 
an  unsettled  and  unappreciative  condition  for  some 
time  to  come.  When  Thomas  Sheridan,  who  was  then 
the  reigning  dramatic  favorite  in  Dublin,  heard  of  this 
intention  he  wrote  his  English  rival  encouraging  the 
project,  and  suggesting  a  joint  engagement,  with  an 
equal  division  of  the  net  profits.  The  upshot  of  it  all 
was  that  Garrick  and  Sheridan  were  soon  playing  on 
the  same  boards,  much  to  the  delight  of  the  Irish  and 
of  the  Dublin  Castle  set,  headed  by  the  famous  lyord 
Chesterfield.  Being  lyord-Iyieutenant  at  that  time, 
Chesterfield  diplomatically  endeavored  to  be  more 
Celtic  than  the  natives.     He  excited  much  comment. 


240  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

accordingly,  by  his  studious  patronage  of  Sheridan  and 
his  offensive  neglect  of  his  own  compatriot,  where- 
by he  hoped  to  prove  his  newly  cultivated  loyalty 
for  the  people  and  institutions  of  the  Emerald  Isle. 
He  had  been  at  particular  pains  to  encourage  Mr. 
Sheridan's  scheme  of  founding  an  academy  of  oratory, 
remarking  impressively,  "Never  let  the  thought  of 
your  oratorical  institution  go  out  of  your  mind,"  but 
several  years  later,  when  the  politest  of  mankind  no 
longer  figured  as  lyord-lyieutenant,  he  contented  him- 
self with  the  unwilling  gift  of  a  guinea  to  so  commend- 
able an  enterprise. 

It  was  during  this  season  that  a  new  and  brilliant 
star,  Spranger  Barry,*  appeared  in  the  theatrical  firma- 
ment and  made  so  fine  an  impression  in  Dublin  as 
Othello  that  James  I^acy  immediately  engaged  him  for 
the  forces  at  Drury  I^ane.  This  fascinating  young 
Irishman,  in  some  respects  so  like  the  dead  and  gone 

*  Barry  married  Mrs.  Dancer,  the  widow  of  an  actor.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  a  Bath  apothecary,  and  attained  much  dis- 
tinction on  the  stage  during  the  height  of  Spranger's  popularity. 
After  the  latter's  death  she  became  the  wife  of  a  Mr.  Crawford, 
who  was  enough  of  a  brute  to  make  her  decHning  years  anything 
but  happy.  Mrs.  Crawford  must  have  been  an  actress  of  uneven 
merit,  strikingly  effective  in  scenes  of  violent  passion,  but  com- 
monplace amid  less  imposing  surroundings.  Boaden  said  her 
voice  "  had  a  transpiercing  effect  that  seemed  absolutely  to 
wither  up  the  hearer — it  was  a  flaming  arrow — it  was  the  Hght- 
ning  of  passion.  ...  It  was  an  electric  shock  that  drove  the 
blood  back  from  the  surface  suddenly  to  the  heart,  and  made 
you  cold  and  shuddering  with  terror  in  the  midst  of  a  crowded 
theatre." 


'*  A   VERY  GOOD  MIMIC:*     .  24 1 

Mountford,  had  a  wonderfully  sweet  voice,  admirably 
adapted  to  melt  an  audience  in  the  portrayal  of  an  un- 
fortunate hero  or  a  pathetic  lover,  and  he  possessed,  in 
addition  to  rare  talents,  a  handsome,  expressive  face,  a 
graceful  figure,  and  a  general  charm  of  manner  that 
made  him  irresistible  in  a  certain  line  of  romantic  char- 
acters. His  Romeo  was  considered  the  beau-ideal  of 
elegance,  grace,  and  youthful  fire,  and  was  even  held, 
by  candid  critics,  to  be  superior  to  Garrick's.  "It 
was  nicely  and  accurately  decided,"  says  Fitzgerald, 
"  that  Barry  was  superior  in  the  garden  scene  of  the  sec- 
ond act,  and  Garrick  in  the  scene  with  the  Friar  ;  Barry 
being  superior  in  the  other  garden  scenes,  and  Garrick 
in  the  portrait  of  the  Apothecary.  Barry  was  also  pre- 
ferred in  the  first  part  of  the  tomb,  and  Garrick  in  the 
dying  part.  Some  said  that  Barry  was  an  Arcadian, 
Garrick  a  fashionable  lover.  But  the  best  test  is,  that 
after  an  interval  Garrick,  with  that  excellent  good 
sense  which  distinguished  every  act  of  his,  quietly 
dropped  the  part  out  of  his  repertoire." 

But  this  is  anticipating  events  with  both  Garrick 
and  Barry.  The  former,  who  proved  generous  enough 
to  warmly  praise  his  rival,  returned  to  England  in  May, 
1746,  to  play  at  Covent  Garden  under  the  management 
of  Rich.  It  was  in  November  of  this  year  that  Richard 
Cumberland,  then  a  pupil  in  Westminster  School,  saw 
Garrick  in  Rowe's  Fair  Penitent,  and  he  has  left  us  a 
graphic  pen-picture  of  the  performance,  with  a  quota- 
tion from  which  the  present  chapter  may  close. 
16 


242.  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLA  Y HO  USE. 

"Quin,"  he  remembers,  "  presented  himself  upon 
the  rising  of  the  curtain  in  a  green  velvet  coat  em- 
broidered down  the  seams,  an  enormous  full -bottom 
periwig,  rolled  stockings,  and  high-heeled,  square-toed 
shoes  ;  with  very  little  variation  of  cadence,  and  in 
deep,  full  tones,  accompanied  by  a  sawing  kind  of 
motion  which  had  more  of  the  Senate  than  the  stage 
in  it,  he  rolled  out  his  heroics  with  an  air  of  dignified 
indifference  that  seemed  to  disdain  the  plaudits  bestowed 
on  him.  Mrs.  Gibber,  in  a  key  high-pitched,  but  sweet 
withal,  sung,  or  rather  recitatived  Rowe's  harmonious 
strain,  somewhat  in  the  manner  of  the  improvisatore's. 
.  .  .  Mrs.  Pritchard  was  an  actress  of  a  different 
cast,  had  more  nature,  and  of  course  more  change  of 
tone,  and  variety  both  of  action  and  expression.  In 
my  opinion  the  comparison  was  decidedly  in  her  favor. 

"  But  when,  after  long  and  eager  expectation,  I  first 
beheld  little  Garrick,  then  young  and  light,  and  alive 
in  every  muscle  and  in  every  feature,  come  bounding 
on  the  stage,  and  pointing  at  the  wittol  Altamont 
(Ryan)  and  heavy-paced  Horatio  (Quin),  Heavens, 
what  a  transition  !  It  seemed  as  if  a  whole  century 
had  been  stepped  over  in  the  changing  of  a  single  scene 
— old  things  were  done  away,  and  a  new  order  at  once 
brought  forward,  light  and  luminous,  and  clearly  des- 
tined to  dispel  the  barbarisms  and  bigotry  of  a  tasteless 
age,  too  long  attached  to  the  prejudices  of  custom,  and 
superstitiously  devoted  to  the  illusions  of  imposing 
declamation." 


CHAPTER  XII. 
the;  pai,my  days  of  garrick. 

GARRICK  proved  so  great  a  magnet  at  Covent 
Garden  that  I^acy,  of  the  now  almost  deserted 
Drury  Lane,  had  the  good  sense  to  take  the  figurative 
bull  by  the  horns,  by  trying  to  catch  the  hero  for  his 
own  house.  The  result  was  a  series  of  negotiations 
ending  in  the  purchase,  by  the  actor,  of  a  half  interest 
in  the  patent  of  the  latter  theatre,  for  the  sum  of 
^8000.  Thus  he  became  co-partner  with  Lacy  in  the 
enterprise,  and  the  strangest  part  of  the  whole  transac- 
tion was  the  indifference,  nay,  actual  pleasure,  with 
which  Rich,  of  Covent  Garden,  regarded  the  loss  of 
his  most  important  performer.  Davies  explains  this 
singular  philosophy  when  he  says  :  * '  It  was  imagined 
by  those  who  knew  his  [Rich's]  humor  best,  that  he 
would  have  been  better  pleased  to  see  his  great  come- 
dians show  away  to  empty  benches,  that  he  might  have 
had  an  opportunity  to  mortify  their  pride,  by  bringing 
out  a  new  pantomime,  and  drawing  the  town  after  his 
raree-show.  Often  he  would  take  a  peep  at  the  house 
through  the  curtain,  and  as  often,  from  disappointment 
and  disgust,  arising  from  the  view  of  a  full  audience, 

243 


244      ECHOES  OF  THE  PLA  YHOUSE. 

break  out  into  the  following  expression  :  ' '  What,  are 
you  there?    Well,  much  good  may  it  do  you  ! '  " 

Mr.  Rich  had  so  firm  a  belief  in  the  efl&cacy  of 
pantomime  and  of  his  own  talents  therein,  that  he 
looked  upon  the  ' '  legitimate  ' '  as  something  of  an 
impertinence,  at  least  when  he  was  obliged  to  give  it 
house-room.  "Though  he  might  have  easily  fixed 
Mr.  Garrick  in  his  service  long  before  he  had  bargained 
for  a  share  of  Drury  I^ane  patent,  he  gave  himself  no 
concern,  when  he  was  told  of  a  rnatter  so  fatal  to  his 
own  interest ;  he  rather  seemed  to  consider  it  as  a 
release  from  a  disagreeable  engagement,  and  consoled 
himself  with  mimicking  the  great  actor.  It  was  a 
ridiculous  sight  to  see  the  old  man  upon  his  knees  re- 
peating Lear's  curse  to  his  daughter,  after  Garrick's 
manner,  as  he  termed  it ;  while  some  of  the  players 
who  stood  round  him  gave  him  loud  applause;  and 
others,  though  they  were  obliged  to  join  in  the  general 
approbation,  heartily  pitied  his  folly  and  despised  his 
ignorance."  And  so  good-day  to  you,  intelligent  Mr. 
Rich,  and  stifle  any  after  regrets  you  may  experience 
with  the  comforting  thought  that  your  artistic  percep- 
tions are  quite  as  deep  as  those  of  the  average  manager. 

While  Rich  extracted  entertainment  from  his  carica- 
ture of  Garrick  the  latter  quickly  gathered  a  goodly 
company  about  him,  including  the  tragic  Mistress 
Pritchard  and  the  engaging  Mrs.  Gibber,  and  re-opened 
Drury  I^ane  in  September,  1747,  with  the  Merchant  of 
Venice.     Garrick  himself   spoke  a  prologue  written  by 


THE   PALMY  DA  YS  OP  GARRICK.  245 

his  friend,  Dr.  Johnson,  who,  for  all  his  much  vaunted 
hatred  of  the  stage,  could,  on  occasion,  stand  sponsor 
for  it  very  gracefully.  In  these  verses,  which  were 
long  cherished  as  among  the  classics  of  modern  litera- 
ture, the  sage  of  Grub  Street,  briefly  but  cleverly  des- 
cribed the  transitions  of  the  drama  from  the  time 

"  When  I^earning's  triumph  o'er  her  barbarous  foes 
First  rear'd  the  stage,  immortal  Shakespeare  rose ; 
Each  change  of  many-color'd  life  he  drew, 
Exhausted  worlds,  and  then  imagin'd  new  ;  " 

until  coming  down  to  his  own  time  the  poet  says,  truly 
enough,  if  a  bit  pompously  : 

"  The  stage  but  echoes  back  the  public  voice  ; 
The  drama's  laws,  the  drama's  patrons  give  ; 
For  we  that  live  to  please,  must  please  to  live," 

and  in  conclusion  he  calls  upon  the  crowded  and  bril- 
liant audience  to 

*•  .     .     .     bid  the  reign  commence 
Of  rescu'd  Nature  and  reviving  Sense  ; 
To  chase  the  charms  of  sound,  the  pomp  of  show, 
For  useful  mirth,  and  salutary  woe. 
Bid  scenic  virtue  form  the  rising  age. 
And  truth  diffuse  her  radiance  from  the  stage." 

There  was  one  joyous  woman  there  that  happy  night, 
probably  as  the  Portia,  who  could  "diffuse  her  radi- 
ance from  the  stage  ' '  as  few  actresses  have  done  before 
or  since,  and  whose  plastic  art  seemed  almost  equally 
suited  to  ' '  useful  mirth  "  or  "  salutary  woe. ' '  This 
was  brilliant  Peg  Woffington,  she  of  the  lovely  pensive 
face,  squeaky  voice,  and  imperious  yet  charming  spirit, 


246  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

who  could  shine  in  anything  from  gloomy  Lady  Mac- 
beth to  the  rakish  Sir  Harry  Wildair^  and  whose  at- 
tractions, if  her  contemporaries  can  be  believed,  suggest 
a  glorified  mixture  of  Bracegirdle,  Oldfield,  and  KUen 
Terry.  This  bright  particular  star  in  Garrick's  con- 
stellation, who  might  have  been  a  great  tragedienne 
had  she  iiot  proved  so  wonderful  in  comedy,  was  the 
daughter  of  an  Irish  laundress,  and  though  she  could 
act  the  woman  of  quality  as  if  "  to  the  manner  born  " 
a  few  of  her  Dublin  admirers  remembered  how,  as  a 
girl,  she  sold  salad  and  water-cresses  on  the  streets. 
After  the  death  of  her  father,  a  bricklayer.  Peg's  mother 
opened  a  huckster's  shop  on  Ormond  Quay,  in  the  Irish 
capital,  and  the  daughter,  already  pretty  and  attractive, 
fell  in  with  a  rope  dancer  named  Madame  Violante,  to 
whom  she  was  apprenticed,  so  to  speak,  as  a  promising 
pupil. 

Soon  Woffington  is  dancing  in  the  Violante' s  booth, 
and  playing  in  a  juvenile  performance  of  the  Beggar's 
Opera,  and  when  only  seventeen  she  appears  on  the 
Dublin  stage.  She  tries  the  gentle  Ophelia,  and  actu- 
ally succeeds  in  the  role,  playing  a  number  of  other 
parts  and  giving  nothing  more  welcome  than  an  essen- 
tially/2^2^<2;2/^,  feminine  impersonation  of  the  masculine 
Wildair.  It  was  in  this  character  that  she  would  sub- 
sequently eclipse  even  Garrick  and  be  the  innocent  cause 
of  a  proposal  of  marriage  from  an  infatuated  young 
lady,  who  would  mistake  Sir  Harry  for  a  man.  So  at 
least  goes  the  romance,  and  why  care  to  doubt  it  ? 


THE  PALMY  DAYS  OF  GARRICK,  247 

Next  she  is  the  centre  of  attraction,  if  not  of  gravity, 
at  Covent  Garden,  and  the  unemotional  Walpole  chroni- 
cles that  "  there  is  much  in  vogue  a  Mrs.  Woffington, 
a  bad  actress,  but  she  has  life."  I^ater  she  meets  Gar- 
rick,  plays  with  him,  and  as  she  is  not  so  strong  in 
moral  as  in  artistic  sense,  thinks  nothing  of  sharing  the 
same  home  with  him.  A  curious  partnership  it  must 
have  been  and  with  far  less  about  it  of  "  loves  young 
dream"  than  one  might  imagine  at  the  first  blush. 
Garrick,  with  his  habitual  closeness  in  money  matters, 
allowing  Peg  to  share  the  expenses  of  the  joint  house- 
hold, chiding  her  for  spending  too  much  during  the 
month  that  he  footed  the  bills,  and  content  that  she 
should  make  as  lavish  an  outlay  as  she  wished  for  the 
next  month  ;  Peg,  charming  and  housewifely,  happy 
in  the  thought  that  Garrick  may  marry  her,  yet  not 
above  a  flirtation  in  another  direction — this  is  the  not 
very  edifying  or  even  romantic  picture  as  it  has  come 
down  to  us.  If  the  canvas  be  a  trifle  dimmed  by  age 
we  need  not  complain ;  there  is  enough  of  it  left  to  show 
that  the  original  colors  were  gairish  rather  than  allur- 
ing. 

The  new  managment,  so  auspiciously  inaugurated 
with  the  assistance  of  two  such  curiously  unlike  persons 
as  Johnson  and  Mistress  Woffington,  was  soon  in  full 
swing.  There  were  numerous  revivals,  one  of  them 
being  Henry  V.,  in  which  Garrick  generously  allowed 
Spranger  Barry  to  play  the  King,  (it  was  wisely  done, 
too,  for  Barry  must  have  been  an  ideal  Hal^  and  mod- 


248  ECHOES  OF   THE  FLA  Y HO  USE, 

estly  assigned  himself  to  the  Chorus.  In  the  ensuing 
season  of  1748-9  Woffington,  whose  intimacy  with  the 
actor-manager  had  come  to  a  more  or  less  prosaic  end, 
returned  to  Covent  Garden  and  the  easily  consoled 
Garrick  went  on  producing  a  variety  of  plays,  among 
them  Mtich  Ado  About  Nothing,  Romeo  and  Juliet,  with 
Barry  as  the  fervid  Montague,  and  Dr.  Johnson's  trag- 
edy of  Irene. 

In  bringing  out  the  last  named  piece,  Garrick  exer- 
cised the  greatest  care  in  casting  the  parts,  the  four 
principal  ones  being  divided  between  himself,  Barry, 
Mrs.  Pritchard,  and  Mrs.  Gibber,  and  he  provided  the 
richest  sort  of  a  stage  setting,  but  nothing  could  save 
this  ponderous,  not  to  say  stupid  child  of  Johnson's 
moralizing  muse.  On  the  first  performance  several  of 
the  critics  disapproved  of  the  strangling  of  the  fair 
Ire7ie  in  full  view  of  the  house,  and  the  accommodat- 
ing Garrick,  anxious  to  do  anything  that  might  make 
the  tragedy  a  success,  modified  the  scene  as  desired, 
yet  it  is  painful  to  learn  that  * '  the  approbation  of 
Irene  was  not  so  general  as  might  have  been  expected." 
In  other  words,  to  put  it  less  politely,  after  an  en- 
forced run  of  nine  nights  the  play  was  quietly  con- 
signed to  the  limbo  of  oblivion.  It  had  a  fine  moral, 
but  all  the  fine  morals  in  the  world  will  not  constitute 
a  theatrical  hit. 

If  the  serious  Dr.  Johnson  could  not  please  the  town 
just  then  a  far  different  person  had  the  power  to  do  so, 
and  this  was  that  delightful  mimic  and  entertainer,  but 


>^  "^~«iIC^^2 


.><?-<S<><i^^3s*^!S^^^»C?A.;^?:,^^ 


MRS.  WOFFINGTON. 

FROM  AN  OLD  PRINT. 


THE  PALMY  DA  YS  OF  GARRICK,  249 

none  the  less  unscrupulous  scalawag,  Samuel  Foote. 
Garrick,  who  spoke  of  him  as  ''a  man  of  wonderful 
abilities,  and  the  most  entertaining  companion  I  have 
ever  known,"  was  afraid  of  this  heartless  portrayer  of 
human  frailties,  and  so  were  many  other  Londoners  of 
mark,  for  Foote  made  all  his  reputation,  good  or  bad, 
by  caricaturing  his  contemporaries.  And  charming 
caricatures  they  proved,  too,  excepting  to  the  unfortu- 
nate subjects  of  the  sarcasm.  Even  Johnson  admitted 
the  talents  of  this  prince  of  mimics,  although  when  it 
came  his  turn  to  be  parodied,  he  took  good  care  that 
no  jest  or  jibe,  however  amusing,  should  be  pointed  at 
his  own  expense.  *  *  The  first  time  I  was  in  company 
with  Foote,"  the  lexicographer  tells  Boswell,  *'  was  at 
Fitzherbert's.  Having  no  good  opinion  of  the  fellow, 
I  was  resolved  not  to  be  pleased  ;  and  it  is  very  diffi- 
cult to  please  a  man  against  his  will.  I  went  on  eat- 
ing my  dinner  pretty  sullenly,  affecting  not  to  mind 
him  ;  but  the  dog  was  so  very  comical,  that  I  was 
obliged  to  lay  down  my  knife  and  fork,  throw  myself 
back,  and  fairly  laugh  it  out." 

Wonderful  indeed  he  must  have  been,  this  witty 
Foote,  to  make  the  great  Johnson  forget  for  the  nonce 
the  pleasures  of  Fitzherbert's  dinner- table.  "  No,  sir, 
he  was  irresistible, ' '  the  Doctor  continues.  *  *  He  upon 
one  occasion  experienced,  in  an  extraordinary  degree, 
the  efficacy  of  his  powers  of  entertaining.  Among  the 
many  and  various  modes  which  he  tried  of  getting 
money,  he  became  a  partner  with  a  small  beer  brewer, 


250  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLA  Y HO  USE. 

and  he  was  to  have  a  share  of  the  profits  for  procuring 
customers  amongst  his  numerous  acquaintance.  Fitz- 
herbert  was  one  who  took  his  small  beer ;  but  it  was 
so  bad  that  the  servants  resolved  not  to  drink  it.  They 
were  at  some  loss  how  to  notify  their  resolution,  being 
afraid  of  offending  their  master,  who  they  knew  liked 
Foote  much  as  a  companion.  At  last  they  fixed  upon 
a  little  black  boy,  who  was  rather  a  favorite,  to  be 
their  deputy,  and  deliver  their  remonstrance  ;  and 
having  invested  him  with  the  whole  authority  of  the 
kitchen,  he  was  to  inform  Mr.  Fitzherbert,  in  all  their 
names,  upon  a  certain  day,  that  they  would  drink 
Foote' s  small  beer  no  longer.  On  that  day  Foote  hap- 
pened to  dine  at  Fitzherbert' s,  and  this  boy  served  at 
table;  he  was  so  delighted  with  Foote' s  stories,  and 
merriment,  and  grimace,  that  when  he  went  downstairs 
he  told  them  :  '  This  is  the  finest  man  I  have  ever 
seen.  I  will  not  deliver  your  message.  I  will  drink 
his  small  beer.'  "  Verily,  the  man  whose  brilliancy 
can  give  sparkle  to  bad  beer  must  indeed  be  a  bit  of 
a  genius. 

When  Johnson  became  the  subject  of  Mr.  Foote' s 
wit,  the  talents  of  the  offender  were  hardly  so  well  ap- 
preciated. As  Boswell  tells  us,  when  the  Doctor  was 
informed  that  he  was  to  be  mimicked  for  the  public 
amusement  he  asked  Thomas  Davies,  at  whose  house 
he  was  dining,  * '  what  was  the  common  price  of  an 
oak  stick,"  and  being  answered  sixpence,  *'Why, 
then,  sir,"  he  replied,  "give  me  leave  to  send  your 


THE  PALMY  DAYS  OF  GARRICK.  25  I 

servant  to  purchase  me  a  shilling  one.  "  I  '11  have  a 
double  quantity  ;  for  I  am  told  Foote  means  to  take 
me  off^  as  he  calls  it,  and  I  am  determined  the  fellow 
shall  not  do  it  with  impunity."  Foote  heard  of  the 
intended  purchase,  took  the  hint,  and  wisely  concluded 
not  to  introduce  the  bulky  portrait  of  Johnson  in  his 
gallery  of  celebrities. 

It  was  in  Januarj^  of  the  year  1749  that  Foote  was 
brought  into  particular  prominence  by  an  episode  after- 
wards spoken  of  as  "  the  affair  of  the  Bottle  Conjuror." 
He  had  been  giving  at  the  Haymarket  a  highly  char- 
acteristic and  popular  entertainment  known  as  an 
"'Auction  of  Pictures,''  when  there  appeared  in  the 
papers  one  morning  a  remarkable  advertisement.  It 
set  forth  that 

"  At  the  New  Theatre  in  the  Haymarket,  this  present 
day,  to  be  seen  a  person  who  performs  the  several  most 
surprising  things  following,  viz.  :  First,  he  takes  a  com- 
mon walking-cane  from  anj^  of  the  spectators,  and 
thereon  he  plays  the  music  of  every  instrument  now  in 
use,  and  likewise  sings  to  surprising  perfection.  Sec- 
ondly, he  presents  you  with  a  common  wine  bottle, 
which  any  of  the  spectators  may  first  examine  ;  this 
bottle  is  placed  on  a  table  in  the  middle  of  the  stage, 
and  he  (without  any  equivocation)  goes  into  it,  in  the 
sight  of  all  the  spectators,  and  sings  in  it ;  during  his 
stay  in  the  bottle  any  person  may  handle  it,  and  see 
plainly  that  it  does  not  exceed  a  common  tavern  bottle. 
Those  on  the  stage  or  in  the  boxes  may  come  in  masked 


252  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLA  Y HO  USE. 

habits  (if  agreeable  to  them)  and  the  performer  (if  de- 
sired) will  inform  them  who  they  are^ 

This  adventurous  person  also  undertook  to  show  the 
dead,  give  a  full  view  of  the  "  persons  who  have  injured 
you,  dead  or  alive  ' '  and  otherwise  make  things  inter- 
esting for  the  audience. 

At  half-past  six  in  the  evening,  the  time  appointed 
for  the  appearance  of  the  mysterious  bottle  conjuror,  a 
crowd  of  curious  people  had  assembled  in  the  Hay- 
market  theatre,  and  when  seven  o'clock  came  and  he  had 
not  materialized  some  of  the  more  impatient  began 
indulging  in  cat-calls  and  other  signals  of  displeasure. 
Thereupon,  a  man  come  on  the  stage  who  announced 
that  the  admission  money  paid  by  the  would-be  specta- 
tors was  to  be  returned ;  somebody  else  facetiously 
called  out  that  '*  if  they  would  come  again  the  next 
night,  at  double  prices,  the  conjuror  would  go  into  a 
pint  bottle,"  and  after  this  a  candle  was  suddenly 
thrown  upon  the  stage.  A  row  immediately  ensued  ; 
the  Duke  of  Cumberland  in  trying  to  escape  from  the 
scuffle  lost  his  diamond  hilted  sword ;  and  the  more 
rowdy  element  of  the  audience,  now  turned  into  an 
angry  mob,  tore  up  the  boxes  and  benches,  pulled  down 
the  curtain  and  scenery,  and  made  a  large  bonfire  of  the 
dibris  opposite  the  entrance  to  the  theatre. 

The  next  morning  the  town  was  merrily  gossiping 
over  the  great  hoax,  and  not  a  few  averred  that  the 
unconscionable  Foote  himself  was  at  the  bottom  of  the 
whole  affair,  ' '  the  most  disgraceful  attack  that  was  ever 


THE  PALMY  DAYS  OF  GARRICIC.  253 

made  upon  the  commonsense  of  the  metropolis. ' '  Foote, 
however,  very  stoutly  denied  any  complicity  in  or 
knowledge  of  the  bottle-conjuring  episode,  and  it  is 
quite  possible  that  he  spoke  truly. 

The  frantic  efforts  of  the  great  mimic  to  prove  that 
he  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  trick,  must  have  keenly 
amused  Garrick,  who,  while  he  treated  Foote  with  the 
greatest  outward  consideration,  secretly  feared  and  dis- 
liked him.  Davies  has  left  it  on  record  that  Foote  con- 
sidered Garrick  as  a  rival  in  theatrical  fame,  and  yet, 
as  the  biographer  truly  adds,  *'  no  two  men  were  more 
opposite  in  their  pretensions  to  stage  merit  :  in  acting, 
Mr.  Garrick  was,  doubtless,  an  unlimited  genius ; 
Foote  was  restrained  to  certain  characters  of  his  own 
composition  :  though  he  had,  for  a  few  years,  been 
hired  at  a  handsome  salary  as  an  actor,  all  his  efforts, 
both  in  tragedy  and  comedy,  from  Othello,  his  first  at- 
tempt, down  to  Ben  the  Sailor,  one  of  his  last,  were 
mean,  disagreeable,  and  often  distorted  by  grimace 
and  buffoonry. ' ' 

The  actor  was  wont  to  praise  the  mimic  in  the  most 
ostentatious,  not  to  say  fulsome  manner — oh,  thou 
canny  David — but  these  insincere  commendations  were 
thrown  away  upon  the  dangerous  "  rival, "who  only 
went  on  abusing  Garrick  and  borrowing  his  money  all 
the  more.  Foote  '*  constantly  railed  at  Mr.  Garrick  in 
all  companies  ;  his  abilities  as  an  actor  he  questioned, 
in  contradiction  to  all  the  world  ;  his  compositions  as 
a  writer,  he  treated  with  scorn  ;  virtues,  as  a  member 


254  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLA  Y HO  USE. 

of  society,  he  had  none  ;  he  was  covetous  and  tricking ; 
in  short,  according  to  his  opinion,  he  was  everything 
that  was  mean  and  unworthy  of  a  gentleman.*  Neither 
his  family,  his  friends,  nor  acquaintance,  his  father^ 
mother,  body,  sotd,  or  muse,  were  spared  by  this  strange 
wit,  who  ran  a-tilt  at  everybody,  and  was  at  the  same 
time  caressed  and  feared,  admired  and  hated  by  all. 

**  In  the  meantime,  these  rival  wits  would  often  meei 
at  the  houses  of  persons  of  fashion,  who  were  glad  to 
have  two  such  guests  at  their  table,  though  they  cer- 
tainly should  have  entertained  their  friends  separately  ; 
for  Mr.  Garrick  was  a  muta  persona  in  the  presence  of 
Foote  :  he  was  all  admiration  when  this  great  genius 
entertained  the  company,  and  no  man  laughed  more 
heartily  at  his  lively  sallies  than  he  did.  It  must  be 
owned  that  he  tried  all  methods  to  conciliate  Foote' s 
mind  ;  so  far  at  least,  as  to  prevail  upon  him  to  forbear 
his  illiberal  attacks  upon  him  when  absent ;  and, this 
he  ought  to  have  done  for  his  own  sake,  for  Foote  often 
rendered  his  conversation  disgusting  by  his  nauseous 
abuse  of  Mr.  Garrick  ;  but  the  more  sensibility  the 
latter  discovered,  the  greater  price  the  former  put  upon 
his  ceasing  from  hostilities." 

*  In  Roger's  Table  Talk  is  found  a  curious  distinction  made 
by  Arthur  Murphy,  the  actor,  between  Garrick's  private 
and  professional  life.  "Mr.  Murphy,  sir,  you  knew  Mr.  Gar- 
rick?" "Yes,  sir,  I  did,  and  no  man  better."  "Well,  sir, 
what  did  you  think  of  his  acting  ?  "  After  a  pause  :  "  Well, 
sir,  off  the  stage  he  was  a  mean  sneaking  little  fellow.  But  on 
the  stage  " — throwing  up  his  hands  and  eyes— "oh,  my  Great 
God ! " 


THE  PALMY  DAYS  OF  GARRICK,  255 

Richard  Cumberland,  who  saw  much  of  both  these 
remarkable  men,  indicates  in  his  memoirs  that  Garrick 
was  far  from  being  a  tmita  persona^  as  Davies  classi- 
cally puts  it,  in  the  presence  of  the  much-to-be-feared 
caricaturist.  '*I  made  a  visit  with  him  [Garrick]  by 
his  own  proposal  to  Foote  at  Parson's  Green  ;  I  have 
heard  it  said  he  was  reserved  and  uneasy  in  his  com- 
pany ;  I  never  saw  him  more  at  ease  and  in  a  happier 
flow  of  spirits  than  on  that  occasion.  .  .  .  We  had 
taken  him  [Foote]  by  surprise  and  of  course  were  with 
him  some  hours  before  dinner,  to  make  sure  of  our 
own  if  he  had  missed  of  his.  He  seemed  overjoyed  to 
see  us,  engaged  us  to  stay,  walked  with  us  in  his  gar- 
den and  read  to  us  some  scenes  roughly  sketched  for 
his  Maid  of  Bath.  His  dinner  was  quite  good  enough 
and  his  wine  superlative.  Sir  Robert  Fletcher,  who 
had  served  in  the  East  Indies,  dropt  in  before  dinner  and 
made  the  fourth  of  our  party.  When  we  had  passed 
about  two  hours  in  perfect  harmony  and  hilarity,  Gar- 
rick called  for  his  tea,  and  Sir  Robert  rose  to  depart  : 
there  was  an  unlucky  screen  in  the  room  that  hid  the 
door,  and  behind  which  he  hid  himself  for  some  pur- 
pose, whether  natural  or  artificial  I  know  not ;  but 
Foote,  supposing  him  gone,  instantly  began  to  play  off 
his  ridicule  at  the  expense  of  his  departed  guest.  I 
must  confess  it  was  (in  the  cant  phrase)  a  way  that  he 
had,  and  just  now  a  very  unlucky  way,  for  Sir  Robert, 
bolting  from  behind  the  screen,  cried  out — *  I  am  not 
gone,  Foote ;  spare  me  till  I  am  out  of  hearing ;  and 


256  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLA  Y HO  USE, 

now  with  your  leave  I  will  stay  till  these  gentlemen 
depart,  and  then  you  shall  amuse  me  at  their  cost,  as 
you  have  amused  them  at  mine.' 

' '  A  remonstrance  of  this  sort  was  an  electric  shock 
that  could  not  be  parried.  No  wit  could  furnish  an 
evasion,  no  explanation  could  suffice  for  an  excuse. 
The  offended  gentleman  was  to  the  full  as  angry  as  a 
brave  man  ought  to  be  with  an  unfortunate  wit,  who 
possessed  very  little  of  that  quality,  which  he  abounded 
in.  This  event,  which  deprived  Foote  of  all  presence 
of  mind,  gave  occasion  to  Garrick  to  display  his  genius 
and  good  nature  in  their  brightest  lustre :  I  never 
saw  him  in  a  more  amiable  light ;  the  infinite  address 
and  ingenuity,  that  he  exhibited,  in  softening  the  en- 
raged guest,  and  reconciling  him  to  pass  over  an  affront 
as  gross  as  could  well  be  put  upon  a  man,  were  at 
once  the  most  comic  and  the  most  complete  I  ever  wit- 
nessed. Why  was  not  James  Boswell  present  to  have 
recorded  the  dialogue  and  the  action  of  the  scene  ?  My 
stupid  head  only  carried  away  the  effect  of  it.  It  was 
as  if  Diomed  (who  being  the  son  of  Tydeus  was,  I  con- 
clude, a  great  hero  in  a  small  compass)  had  been  shield- 
ing Thersites  from  the  wrath  of  Ajax  ;  and  so  wrathful 
was  our  Ajax,  that  if  I  did  not  recollect  there  was  a 
certain  actor  at  Delhi,  who  in  the  height  of  the 
massacre  charmed  away  the  furious  passions  of 
Nadir  Shaw,  and  saved  a  remnant  of  the  city,  I 
should  say  this  was  a  victory  without  a  parallel.  I 
hope   Foote  was  very  grateful,  but  when  a  man  has 


THE  PALMY  DAYS  OF  GARRICK.  257 

been  completely  humbled,  he  is  not  very  fond  of 
recollecting  it." 

To  wander  back  to  more  important  events  in  Gar- 
rick's  career,  let  us  mention  the  appearance  on  the 
scene  of  the  graceful  Violette,  whom  he  was  after- 
wards to  marry.  Bva  Maria  Violette,  or  to  give  her 
real  name,  Eva  Maria  Veigel,  was  a  native  of  Vienna, 
where  she  had  been  educated  as  a  danseuse.  She  ap- 
peared at  the  Austrian  Court,  where  she  danced  for 
the  edification  of  the  Empress-Queen,  Maria  Theresa, 
and  soon  after  set  out  for  London  to  seek  her  fortunes. 
The  cause  of  this  sudden  departure  has  been  explained, 
and  perhaps  truly,  by  the  statement  that  Maria  The- 
resa, perceiving  that  her  husband,  the  Emperor,  re- 
garded Mile.  Violette  with  marked  attention,  proposed 
this  journey  to  England  and  forwarded  powerful  rec- 
ommendations in  her  favor.  It  is  at  least  certain  that 
she  found  most  influential  backing  when  she  arrived  ; 
King  George  II.  commanded  the  play  on  her  first 
appearance  at  Drury  I^ane,  in  December,  1746,  and 
she  was  warmly  befriended  by  the  family  of  the  Earl 
of  Burlington.*  With  such  distinguished  patronage, 
added  to  the  fact  that  she  was  very  attractive  both  as 
to  her  personality  and  her  dancing,  the  Violette  soon 
became  quite  the  fashion  ;  she  resided  with  the  Count- 
ess of  Burlington,  who  used  to  go  with  her  to  the  the- 
atre, playing  the  part  of  an  amateur  lady's  maid,  and 
Walpole,  in  a  letter  to  Montague,  chronicles  that  "  the 

*  There  was  an  unfounded  story  afloat  to  the  effect  that  Lord 
Burlington  was  Mile.  Violette's  father. 


258  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLA  Y HO  USE. 

fame  of  the  Violette  increases  daily.  The  sister  Count- 
esses of  Burlington  and  Talbot  exert  all  their  stores  of 
sullen  partiality  and  competition  for  her.  The  former 
visits  her,  and  is  having  her  picture  "  ;  and  so  on,  in 
the  true  Walpolian  vein  of  gossip. 

Soon  Garrick  is  paying  his  court  to  the  favorite,  who 
returns  his  attachment ;  then  he  makes  a  formal  and 
very  stately  proposal  to  lyady  Burlington  for  the  hand 
of  the  charmer,  and  has  the  good  fortune  to  be  ac- 
cepted. Next  he  becomes  an  honored  guest  at  Bur- 
lington House,  and  we  hear  of  him  dancing  attendance 
upon  his  Jiande  at  fashionable  entertainments.  In 
describing  one  given  at  Richmond,  Walpole  writes  : 
"  There  was  an  admirable  scene,  Lady  Burlington 
brought  the  Violette^  and  the  Richmond  had  asked 
Garrick,  who  stood  ogling  and  sighing  the  whole  time, 
while  my  lady  kept  a  most  fierce  look-out.  Sabbatini 
asked  me,  '  And  who  is  that  ? '  It  was  a  distressing 
question  ;  after  a  little  hesitation  I  replied  :  *  Mais, 
c' est  Madertioiselle  Violette.'''' 

But  while  Walpole' s  snobbishness  might  be  pained 
at  seeing  a  mere  dancer  among  such  a  brilliant  array 
of  titled  personages,  Garrick  had  no  such  feeling,  nat- 
urally enough,  and  he  proudly  made  her  the  possessor 
of  his  now  great  name,  just  one  month  later  (June, 
1749).  It  proved  to  be  a  very  happy  marriage,  and 
none  the  less  so  to  the  business-like  husband,  because 
the  wife  brought  with  her  a  dot  of  ;^6ooo,  the  gift  of 
the  Burlington  family. 


THE  PALMY  DAYS  OF  GARRICK.  259 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Garrick  began  to  experi- 
ence with  full  force  those  troubles  and  petty  annoy- 
ances which  inevitably  fall  to  the  lot  of  any  success- 
ful manager  who  has  long  to  deal  with  a  company  of 
his  own.  A  man  in  such  a  position  is  like  the  ruler 
over  a  lot  of  children  in  whom,  perhaps,  he  only  takes 
an  interest  in  so  far  as  they  contribute  to  his  own  glory 
and  fortune.  The  players,  on  their  side,  are  sensitive 
to  a  remarkable  degree  ;  they  have  their  jealousies 
and  ambitions  under  poor  control,  and  to  the  not  in- 
frequent idea  of  their  own  importance  they  combine 
a  secret  feeling  that  their  manager  is  trying  to  get 
from  them  a  maximum  of  work  at  a  minimum  of 
salary.  And  so  it  happened  that  Spranger  Barry, 
and  Mrs.  Cibber  became  peevish  and  discontented 
with  Garrick,  believed  that  they  were  shabbily  treated 
(no  doubt  they  thought  so  without  good  reason),  and 
finally  went  bag  and  baggage  over  to  the  enemy,  in 
the  person  of  Mr.  Rich,  of  Covent  Garden.  This 
proved  rather  an  unpleasant  revolt  for  Garrick,  but 
he  showed  himself  equal  to  the  emergency.  The 
play-goers  were  the  gainers  by  the  episode,  for  it  gave 
them  two  productions  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  over  which 
they  could  talk  for  many  a  day,  and  perhaps  say  to 
their  open-mouthed  grandchildren  :  '*  Kgad,  boys,  you 
should  have  seen  Barry's  Romeo — there  was  a  lover  for 
you!"  or  "  I  think  Mr.  Garrick  was  the  better  hero 
of  the  two  !  "  or  *'  Zounds,  what  a  glorious /?//?>/  did 
my  friend  Mrs.  Cibber  make." 


26o  ECHOES  OP  THE  FLA  YHOUSE. 

It  was  in  October,  1749,  when  the  two  rebellious  sub- 
jects of  Drury  I^ane  began  their  campaign  at  Covent 
Garden  with  their  much  admired  impersonations  in 
Shakespeare's  tragic  love  story,  but  Garrick  met  them 
on  their  own  ground  by  appearing  in  the  same  play.  At 
first  both  houses  were  crowded  by  persons  who  rejoiced 
in  the  sensation  of  comparing  the  rival  productions,  and 
coffee-house  and  drawing-room  were  filled  with  discus- 
sions as  to  the  relative  merits  of  Garrick  and  Barry  as 
well  as  of  the  two  Juliets^  Mrs.  Gibber  and  Miss  Bel- 
lamy. One  critic  remarked  epigrammatically  that  **at 
Covent  Garden  he  saw  Juliet  and  Romeo  and  at  Drury 
I^ane  Romeo  and  Juliet^ ' '  which  sounds  very  clever,  to 
be  sure,  but  is  probably  a  poor  opinion,  for  if  contem- 
porary testimony  on  the  subject  is  to  go  for  anything, 
Barry,  rather  than  Garrick,  proved  the  ideal  Ro?neo. 
We  can  imagine  Spranger,  passionate,  handsome,  full  of 
grace  and  very,  very  human — just  the  lover  a  woman 
would  admire — while  with  Garrick  the  picture  is  equally 
interesting  but  the  colors  are  not  so  warm  and  sensuous, 
and  face  and  figure  lack  the  indefinable  but  none  the 
less  potent  charm  that  made  his  rival  so  fascinating  a 
Mo7itague. 

But  the  theatre-goer,  past  and  present,  has  been 
known  to  have  too  much  of  a  good  thing,  as  instanced 
in  the  case  of  these  phenomenally-cast  Romeo  ayid 
Juliets.  The  public  began  to  clamor  for  something 
new,  and  heartily  sympathized  with  the  hero  of  the 
epigram  which  ran 


THE  PALMY  DAYS  OF  GARRICK.  26 1 

"  Well,  what's  to-uight,"  says  angry  Ned, 

As  up  from  bed  he  rouses  : 
*'  Romeo  again  !  "  and  shakes  his  head  ; 
**  Ah,  plague  on  both  your  houses." 

So  the  play  was  duly  withdrawn,  but  not  until  the 
Drury  I^ane  revival  had  brought  into  greater  prominence 
than  ever  the  charming,  the  capricious,  and  the  depraved 
George  iVnn  Bellamy,  whose  checkered  career  was  filled 
with  an  unhallowed,  unclean  spirit  of  romance  that 
made  her  one  of  the  most  notorious  women  of  her  day. 
She  was  the  illegitimate  daughter  of  I^ord  Tyrawley, 
who  had  her  educated  in  a  French  convent  ;  later  on 
she  was  abducted  by  the  then  Lord  Byron,  a  great 
scoundrel  where  women  were  concerned ;  appeared 
with  success  on  the  Dublin  stage  and  was  soon  the 
heroine  of  a  riot ;  had  an  almost  historic  quarrel  with 
the  Woffington,  and  went  through  a  series  of  experi- 
ences, amorous  and  otherwise,  that  "excited  the  won- 
der, admiration,  and  pitying  contempt  of  the  town  for 
thirty  years."  "To  say  that  she  was  a  siren  who 
lured  men  to  destruction,  is  to  say  little,"  observes  Dr. 
Doran,  "  for  she  went  down  to  him  with  each  victim  ; 
but  she  rose  from  the  wreck  more  exquisitely  seductive 
and  terribly  fascinating  than  ever,  to  find  a  new  prey 
whom  she  might  ensnare  and  betray." 

The  same  writer  tells  us  in  that  entertainingly  pictur- 
esque fashion  of  his  how  the  feminine  love  of  finery 
prompted  the  unclassic  tussle  between  this  same  dan- 
gerous siren  and  the  no  less  formidable  Peg.     ' '  The 


262  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

charming  George  Ann  Bellamy  had  procured  from 
Paris  two  gorgeous  dresses  wherein  to  enact  Statira  in 
the  Rival  Queens."^  Roxana  was  played  by  Peg  Woffing- 
ton  ;  and  she  was  so  overcome  by  malice,  hatred,  and 
all  uncharitableness,  when  she  saw  herself  eclipsed  by 
the  dazzling  glories  of  the  resplendent  Bellamy,  that 
Peg  at  length  resolved  to  drive  her  off  the  stage,  and 
with  upheld  dagger  had  wellnigh  stabbed  her  at  the 
side-scenes.  Alexander  and  a  posse  of  chiefs  with 
hard  names  were  at  hand,  but  the  less  brilliantly,  clad 
Roxa7ia  rolled  Statira  and  her  spangled  sack  in  the 
dust,  pommelling  her  the  while  with  the  handle  of  her 
dagger,  and  screaming  aloud  : 

*  Nor  he,  nor  heaven,  shall  shield  thee  from  my  justice  ; 
Die,  sorceress,  die,  and  all  my  wrongs  die  with  thee.'  " 

The  once  magnificent  Bellamy  with  her  Parisian 
gowns,  her  beauty,  her  talents,  and  her  profligacy,  she 
whom  Dr.  Johnson  said  "  left  nothing  to  be  desired," 
ended  her  life,  sadly  but  appropriately  enough,  in  pov- 
erty and  what  was  for  her  worse  than  disgrace — com- 
parative oblivion.  When  she  made  her  final  bid  for 
popular  favor  in  Dublin  (November,  1760),  2iS  Belvidera 
in  Venice  Preserved,  the  theatre  was  so  crowded  that 
many  persons  w^ere  hustled  and  jostled  into  the  building 
without  paying  the  doorkeeper,  but  what  a  terrible  dis- 
appointment was  in  store  for  them.     Tate  Wilkinson 

*  It  will  be  remembered  that  the  same  play  was  the  scene  of 
a  nearly  tragic  quarrel,  of  which  Mrs.  Barry  was  the  not  very 
creditable  heroine. 


THE  PALMY  DAYS  OF  GARRICK,  263 

saw  the  pathetic  performance  and  notes  in  his  memoirs 
how,  on  her  speaking  the  first  line  behind  the  scenes 

"  lycad  me,  ye  Virgins,  lead  me  to  that  kind  voice," 
it  struck  the  ears  of  the  audience  as  uncouth  and  un- 
musical ;  yet  she  was  received  as  was  prepared  and 
determined  by  all  who  were  her  or  Mr.  Mossop's* 
friends,  and  the  public  at  large  with  repeated  plaudits 
on  her  entree.  '*But  the  roses  were  fled  ;  the  young,  the 
once  lovely  Bellamy  was  turned  haggard  !  and  her  eyes 
that  used  to  charm  all  hearts,  appeared  sunk,  large, 
hollow,  and  ghostly.  O  Time  !  Time  !  thy  glass  should 
be  often  consulted  !  for  before  the  short  first  scene  had 
elapsed  disappointment,  chagrin,  and  pity  sat  on  every 
eye  and  countenance.  .  .  .  She  left  Dublin  with- 
out a  single  friend  to  regret  her  loss.  What  a  change 
from  the  days  of  her  youth  !  "  f 

To  bid  a  painful  adieu  to  the  prematurely  broken 
down  Bellamy  and  come  back  to  more  pleasant  scenes 
of  which  Garrick  was  the  hero,  let  it  be  noted  that  the 
latter  went  on  his  prosperous  way  rejoicing,  reviving 
old  plays,  producing  new  ones,  and  adding  at  every 
turn  to  his  already  extensive  repertoire.  If  he  was  an 
ambitious  actor,  he  was  none  the  less  a  shrewd,  money- 
getting  manager,  and  he  thought  it  a  happy  idea  to 

*  Henry  Mossop,  who  was  then  manager  as  well  as  actor, 
t  Bellamy's  last  appearance  was  at  a  benefit  given  for  her  as 
late  as  1785.     Miss  Farren  spoke  an  address  which  concluded  : 

'*  But  see,  oppress'd  with  gratitude  and  tears, 
To  pay  her  duteous  tribute,  she  appears." 


264  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

vary  the  exhibition  of  the  **  legitimate  "  at  Dniry  Lane 
by  an  occasional  entertainment  of  entirely  different 
character.  This  is  how  it  came  to  pass  that  in  Novem- 
ber, 1755,  there  was  produced  after  the  most  elaborate 
preparations,  a  spectacle  called  The  Chinese  Festival^ 
in  which  rich  costumes,  fine  scenic  effects,  music,  dan- 
cing, and  a  variety  of  other  features  made  up  a  perform- 
ance of  a  kind  that  would  be  highly  popular  in  these 
"  degenerate  "  days.  The  affair  might  have  been  just 
as  popular  then  had  not  an  unfortunate  international 
matter,  which  had  no  real  bearing  on  this  ' '  Chinese ' ' 
or  any  other  "Festival,"  arisen  at  that  time.  This 
was  the  breaking  out  of  hostilities  between  England 
and  France,  and  the  London  public,  in  its  frantic* 
endeavors  to  be  patriotic,  lost  all  common  sense — as 
the  public  will  do  at  certain  seasons — and  took  violent 
umbrage  because  Mr.  Garrick's  new  venture  enlisted 
the  services  of  a  number  of  French  dancers. 

For  five  nights  the  theatre  was  the  scene  of  tumults, 
the  occupants  of  the  boxes  sustaining  Mr.  Garrick,  and 
thereby  only  infuriating  the  more  the  malcontents  in 
the  pit  and  galleries,  who  insisted  on  having  the 
spectacle  withdrawn  from  the  boards  altogether.  As 
a  climax  to  the  disorder  some  gentlemen  jumped  from 
their  boxes,  into  the  pit,  and  entered,  sword  in  hand, 
into  a  conflict  with  the  ringleaders ;  blood  was  shed, 
women  screamed  and  fainted,  as  was  to  be  expected, 
and  the  now  exasperated  mob  ended  up  by  wrecking 
the  inside  of  the  theatre  and  doing  as  much  incidental 


THE   PALMY  DAYS  OF  GARRICK.  265 

damage  as  possible.  Garrick  actually  feared  for  his 
life,  and  the  rioters  repaired  to  his  house,  where  they 
smashed  the  windows  as  a  slight  mark  of  their  august 
disapproval.  Though  the  excitement  ceased  when  the 
obnoxious  ' '  Festival ' '  was  retired  and  the  Frenchmen 
sent  about  their  business,  many  a  day  elapsed  before 
the  episode  was  forgotten. 

One  of  the  few  amusing  things  about  the  whole 
affair  was  the  dragging  out  for  the  occasion  of  his  very 
peculiar  Majesty,  King  George  II.,  whose  presence 
at  the  theatre  on  one  of  these  memorable  nights  would, 
it  was  believed,  have  a  restraining  effect  on  the  audience. 
So  the  old  King,  who  knew  nothing  about  the  drama 
and  cared  less,  commanded  a  performance  of  Richard 
III. ,  witnessed  it  himself  and  laughed  at  the  disorder 
among  the  spectators.  When  the  play  was  over  Garrick 
eagerly  asked  Mr.  Fitzherbert,  who  had  been  in  the 
Royal  box,  how  His  Majesty  liked  the  Richard.  '*I 
can  say  nothing  on  that  head,"  replied  Fitzherbert, 
' '  but  when  an  actor  told  Richard  '  The  Mayor  of  I^on- 
don  comes  to  greet  you  '  the  King  roused  himself ;  and 
when  Taswell  entered  buffooning  the  character,  the 
King  exclaimed  :  '  Duke  of  Grafton^  I  like  that  Lord 
Mayor';  and  when  the  scene  was  over,  he  said  again, 
'Duke  of  Grafton^  that  is  good  Lord  Mayor.''  "  And 
this  was  the  extent  of  his  criticism,  excepting  that 
when  Richard  was  in  Bos  worth  Field,  shouting  for  a 
horse,  George  exclaimed:  ''Duke  of  Grafton^  will 
that  Lord  Mayor  not  come  again  f ' ' 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  GRKAT  I,IGHT  GOES  OUT. 

GARRICK  watched  every  action  of  the  rival  com- 
pany at  Covent  Garden  with  the  keen  eye  of 
a  hawk,  and  there  was  one  pathetic  incident  at  that 
house  that  must  have  had  for  him  a  painful  interest. 
It  was  the  final  appearance  on  the  stage,  as  it  turned 
out,  of  his  one-time  companion.  Peg  Woffington.  Her 
powers  and  beauty  were  on  the  wane,  although  she 
was  still  on  the  right  side  of  forty,  when  she  volun- 
teered in  May,  1757,  to  play  her  favorite  Rosalind,  for 
the  benefit  of  some  fellow-artists.  Tate  Wilkinson, 
then  a  young  actor  who  had  shown  enough  hardihood 
to  burlesque  the  Woffington,  watched  the  progress  of 
the  performance  from  the  wings,  and  we  will  let  him 
tell  the  brief  but  pitiful  story  of  her  farewell. 

' '  She  went  through  Rosalind  for  four  acts  without 
my  perceiving  that  she  was  in  the  least  disordered ; 
but  in  the  fifth  act  she  complained  of  great  indisposi- 
tion. I  offered  her  my  arm,  which  she  graciously  ac- 
cepted. I  thought  she  looked  softened  in  her  manner, 
and  had  less  of  the  hauteur.     When  she  came  off"  at 

266 


A    GREAT  LIGHT  GOES  OUT.  267 

the  quick  change  of  dress,  she  again  complained  of 
being  ill,  but  got  accoutred,  and  returned  to  finish  the 
part,  and  pronounced  the  Epilogue  speech,  '  If  it  be 
true  that,  good  wine  needs  no  bush, '  etc.  But  when 
arrived  at  *  If  I  were  a  woman  I  would  kiss  as  many 
of  you  as  had  beards,'  etc.,  her  voice  broke — she  fal- 
tered— endeavored  to  go  on,  but  could  not  proceed ; 
then  in  a  voice  of  tremor  exclaimed,  '  O  God  !  O  God  ! ' 
and  tottered  to  the  stage  door  speechless,  where  she 
was  caught.  The  audience,  of  course,  applauded  till 
she  was  out  of  sight,  and  then  sunk  into  awful  looks 
of  astonishment,  both  young  and  old,  before  and  be- 
hind the  curtain,  to  see  one  of  the  most  handsome 
women  of  the  age,  a  favorite  principal  actress,  and  who 
had  for  several  seasons  given  high  entertainment, 
struck  so  suddenly  by  the  hand  of  Death,  in  such  a 
time  and  place,  and  in  the  prime  of  life." 

She  had  indeed  been  stricken  by  the  hand  of  Death, 
and  never  more  could  tread  the  boards  she  loved  so 
well,  but  the  final  blow  did  not  come  until  three  years 
later,  when  she  quietly  passed  away  at  Teddington. 
Perhaps  Garrick  shed  an  un-theatrical  tear  when  he 
heard  the  news,  and  then — forgot  her  for  ever. 

Roscius  never  lived  in  the  past,  however  charming 
it  might  have  been,  and  even  had  he  been  disposed  to 
do  so,  the  cares  of  management  forced  him  to 

**  Act, — act  in  the  living  present," 
but  whether  with 

**  Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead" 


268       ECHOES  OF  THE  FLA  Y HOUSE. 

it  is  hard  to  determine.  At  any  rate,  one  of  the  living 
issues  which  soon  gave  him  not  a  little  anxiety  was 
the  transient  popularity  of  Thomas  Sheridan,  who  had 
left  Dublin  and  joined  forces  with  the  hero  of  Drury 
I,ane,  "Sherry  is  dull,  naturally  dull,  but  it  must 
have  taken  him  a  great  deal  of  pains  to  become  what 
we  now  see  him  "  growled  Dr.  Johnson,  and  it  is  plain 
that  the  father  of  Richard  Brinsley  was  a  pretty  poor 
sort  of  actor,  but  he  had  the  theatrical  bee  in  his  bon- 
net, and  studied  hard  to  be  a  genius.  He  was  * '  acting 
mad,  haranguing  mad,  teaching  mad,  managing  mad," 
according  to  a  sour  epigram  of  old  Macklin,  but  with 
all  his  madness  he  contrived  to  play  King  John  so 
eflfectively  at  Drury  Lane  that  Garrick  became  con- 
sumed with  jealousy.  Kven  so  friendly  a  critic  as 
Davies  frankly  admits  that  the  manager  grew  very 
envious  of  his  histrionic  inferior,  * '  especially  when  he 
was  informed  by  a  very  intimate  acquaintance,  that 
the  King  was  uncommonly  pleased  with  that  actor's 
[Sheridan's]  representation  of  the  part."  It  is  added 
that  * '  this  was  a  bitter  cup  ;  and  to  make  the  draught 
still  more  unpalatable,  upon  his  asking  whether  His 
Majesty  approved  his  playing  the  Bastard,  he  was  told, 
without  the  least  compliment  paid  to  his  action,  it 
was  imagined  that  the  King  thought  the  character  was 
rather  too  bold  in  the  drawing,  and  the  coloring  was 
overcharged  and  glaring.  Mr.  Garrick,  who  had  been 
so  accustomed  to  applause,  and  who  of  all  men  living 
most  sensibly  felt  the  neglect  of  it,  was  greatly  struck 


A   GREA  T  LIGHT  GOES  OUT.  269 

with  a  preference  given  to  another,  and  which  left  him 
out  of  all  consideration ;  and  though  the  boxes  were 
taken  for  King  John  several  nights  successively,  he 
would  never  after  permit  the  play  to  be  acted. ' '  There  is 
a  wee  bit  of  the  snob  in  most  of  us,  and  although 
Garrick  knew  in  his  heart  that  the  opinion  of  Dutchy 
George  was  not  worth  a  bagatelle,  the  Royal  preference 
for  Sheridan  soon  put  an  end  to  the  relations,  personal 
and  professional,  between  the  two  actors,  one  of  whom 
"could  not  bear  an  equal,  nor  the  other  a  superior." 
'T  was  not  long,  however,  before  George  II.  had  de- 
parted this  life  and  could  cause  no  more  heartburnings 
by  his  august  critiques  of  things  theatrical,  while  Gar- 
rick suddenly  found  himself  the  hero  of  a  very  remark- 
able work  which  must  have  gratified  his  vanity  as 
much  as  it  chagrined  many  of  his  fellow-players.  It 
was  Charles  Churchill's  poem  of  The  Rosciad^  which 
made  a  great  commotion  at  the  time  because  of  its 
satirical  flings  against  a  number  of  stage  favorites. 
Churchill,  himself  a  constant  theatre-goer,  had  studied 
their  characteristics,  more  particularly  their  failings, 
with  a  calm,  judicious  eye,  free  from  emotions  that 
might  blind  his  judgment,  and  while  his  criticisms  in 
the  Rosciad  were  frequently  true  and  to  the  point,  the 
unfortunate  subjects  of  them  were  none  the  less  angry 
on  this  score.     He  spoke  of  Macklin  as  a  man 

"...     who  largely  deals  in  half-form 'd  sounds, 
Who  wantonly  transgresses  nature's  bounds, 
Whose  acting  's  hard,  affected  and  constrain'd  ;  " 

*  Published  in  March,  1761. 


270  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

he  pointed  out  that  Quin  (who  was  still  living  to  grit 
his  epicurean  teeth  at  the  satire) 

"...     could  not  for  a  moment  sink  the  man," 

and  gave  vent  to  that  now  historic  saying  about  Davies, 
who 

**  Mouths  a  sentence  as  curs  mouth  a  bone." 

Of  the  urbane  and  painstaking  Havard,*  Churchill 
averred  that  he  loved,  hated  and  raged,  triumphed  and 
complained,  all  in  the  same  strains,  and  that 

"  His  easy,  vacant  face  proclaim'd  a  heart 
Which  could  not  feel  emotions  nor  impart," 

while  he  defined  Foote's  powers  very  succinctly   by 
saying  that 

"  His  strokes  of  humor  and  his  bursts  of  sport. 
Are  all  contain'd  in  this  one  word,  distort. 
Doth  a  man  stutter,  look  asquint,  or  halt  ? 
Mimics  draw  humor  out  of  nature's  fault ; 
With  personal  defects  their  mirth  adorn, 
And  hang  misfortunes  out  to  public  scorn." 

^  "  Ha vard  undertook  the  tragedy  of  Charles  I.  at  the  desire 
of  the  manager  of  the  company  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  to 
which  he  then  belonged,  in  1737.  The  manager  had  probably 
read  of  the  salutary  effects  produced  on  the  genius  of  Kuripides 
by  seclusion  in  his  cave,  and  he  was  determined  to  give  Havard 
the  same  advantage  in  a  garret  during  the  composition  of  his 
task.  He  invited  him  to  his  house,  took  him  up  to  one  of  its 
airiest  apartments,  and  there  locked  him  up  for  so  many  hours 
every  day,  well  knowing  his  desultory  habits,  nor  released  him, 
after  he  had  once  turned  the  clavis  tragica,  till  the  unfortunate 
bard  had  repeated  through  the  key-hole  a  certain  number  of 
new  speeches  in  the  progressive  tragedy."— Thomas  Camp- 


SAMUEL   FOOTE. 

AS        MrtS.   COLE  "  IN  HIS  OWN  COMEDY  OF        THE  MINOR.  " — ' '  MY  THOUGHTS  ARE  FIXED 
UPON  A  BETTER  PLACE."      FROM  A  DRAWING  BY  DODD. 


A    GREAT  LIGHT  GOES  OUT,  27 1 

Yet  with  all  this  acidity  the  author  of  the  Rosdad  knew 
how  to  indulge  in  the  most  mellifluous  of  compliments, 
as  when  he  referred  to  the  *'  giggling,  plotting  cham- 
bermaids," the  "hoydens  and  romps"  of  ''General 
Clive,'^  who 

**  Original  in  spirit  and  in  ease, 
She  pleas'd  by  hiding  all  attempts  to  please. 
No  comic  actress  ever  yet  could  raise 
On  humor's  base  more  merit  or  more  praise." 

As  to  Garrick,  the  idol  of  the  poem  and  poet,  no 
praise  could  be  too  strong,  no  metaphor  too  eloquent, 
and  so  we  read  that 

"  If  manly  sense,  if  nature  link'dwith  art ; 
If  thorough  knowledge  of  the  human  heart ; 
If  powers  of  acting  vast  and  unconfin'd  ; 
If  fewer  faults  with  greatest  beauties  joined  ; 
If  strong  expression,  and  great  powers  which  lie 
Within  the  magic  circle  of  the  eye  ; 
If  feelings  which  few  hearts  like  his  can  know, 
And  which  no  face  so  well  as  his  can  show  ; 
Deserve  the  preference  :  Garrick,  take  the  chair, 
Nor  quit  it,  till  thou  place  an  equal  there." 

This  was  all  very  pretty,  but  the  subject  of  the  adu- 
lation was  enough  a  man  of  the  world  to  know  that  his 
own  popularity  was  not  likely  to  be  increased  by  a  pen 
which  so  severely  scratched  many  of  his  contempora- 
ries. It  is  possible  that  his  reception  of  the  Rosciad 
proved  disappointing  to  the  writer,  or  that  he  said 
something  on  the  subject  which  gave  offence  to  the 
latter,  but  whatever  may  have  been  the  reason  Church- 
ill soon  got  out  a  new  poem  entitled   The  Apology. 


272  ECHOES  OP  THE  PLA  Y HO  USE, 

Here  the  panegyrist  turned  cynic,  and  not  only  aimed 

many  an  arrow  at  the  player's  art  in  general,   but 

hurled  a  particularly  poisonous  one  at  his  late  hero, 

speaking  of  him  as  a  **  vain  tyrant,"  suriiounded  by 

"  His  puny  greenroom  wits,  and  venal  bards, 
Who  meanly  tremble  at  a  puppet's  frown, 
And  for  a  playhouse  freedom,  sell  their  own." 

Garrick  was,  at  the  best,  peculiarly  sensitive  to  any 
unfavorable  criticism,  and  grew  very  uncomfortable 
over  the  newly  conferred  titles  of  '  *  tyrant ' '  and  ' '  pup- 
pet. ' '  But  he  could  take  a  hand  himself  in  poetical 
warfare  of  this  kind,  and  being,  as  his  friend  Gold- 
smith said,  **awit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line," 
he  made  a  formidable  adversary.  When  Dr.  Hill,  a 
famous  quack,  attacked  Garrick  in  the  newspapers 
(presumably  because  even  the  talents  of  the  actor  could 
not  save  from  disastrous  failure  a  poor  farce  written  by 
the  empirical  gentleman)  he  was  quickly  disposed  of 
by  one  of  the  cleverest  and  most  cutting  couplets  that 
ever  graced  the  English  language.  It  was  simply 
this  : 

'*  Epigram  on  Dr.  Hiivi,. 

Vox  physic  and/arces  his  equal  there  scarce  is; 
His  yhrces  are  physic  ;  h.\s  physic  a  farce  is." 

Garrick,  who  wrote  the  lines,  had  administered  an- 
other shock  in  verse,  some  time  before,  to  the  same 
culprit.  Hill  had  published  a  pamphlet  containing 
A  Petition  from  the  Letters  I  and  U  to  David  Garrick^ 
Esq.y  in  which  it  was  contended  that  the  great  player 


A    GkEAT  LIGHT  GOES  OUT,  2y^ 

misplaced  the  aforesaid  letters  in  his  pronunciation  of 
certain  words.     To  this  the  guilty  man  made  answer  : 

"  If  *t  is  true,  as  you  say,  that  I  've  injured  a  letter, 
I  '11  change  my  note  soon,  and  I  hope  for  the  better. 
May  the  right  use  of  letters,  as  well  as  of  men. 
Hereafter  be  fix'd  by  the  tongue  and  the  pen  : 
Most  devoutly  I  wish  they  may  both  have  their  due, 
And  that  /may  be  never  mistaken  for  f/." 

Poor  poetry  it  all  may  have  been,  as  standards  go  in 
these  days  of  naturalism,  realism,  pre-Raphaelism,  and 
various  other  isms,  but  it  served  its  purpose  well  by 
contributing  to  the  gayety  of  nations.  Can  the  same 
thing  be  said  of  much  of  our  modern  verse  ? 

Sometimes  Mr.  Garrick  had  greater  managerial 
troubles  than  those  associated  with  the  writing  of 
witty  epigrams,  as,  for  instance,  in  the  beginning  of 
1763,  when  he  went  through  the  unpleasant  experi- 
ence of  another  theatrical  riot.  There  was  no  ob- 
noxious Chinese  Festival  this  time ;  the  bone  of 
contention  proved  to  be  a  financial  rather  than  a  patri- 
otic one.  It  appears  that  the  treasurer  of  Drury  L,ane, 
Benjamin  Victor,  had  altered  Shakespeare's  Two  Gen- 
tlemen of  Verona,  and  when  the  play  was  to  be  given 
for  the  benefit  night  of  the  adapter,  a  paper  was  circu- 
lated in  public  places  setting  forth  the  injustice  of  the 
management  in  treating  the  production  as  an  absolute 
novelty  and  charging  full  prices  for  what  was  nothing 
more  or  less  than  a  revival.  When  the  benefit  evening 
came  (the  sixth  evening  of  the  performance  of  the 
comedy)  the  head  and  front  of  the  malcontents,  a  Mr. 

i8 


274  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

Fitzpatrick,  "  harangued  the  spectators  from  the  boxes, 
and  set  forth,  in  very  warm  and  opprobrious  language, 
the  impositions  of  the  managers,  and  with  much  vehe- 
mence, pleaded  the  right  of  the  audience  to  fix  the 
price  of  their  bill  of  fare.*  When  Mr.  Garrick  came 
forward  to  address  the  house,  he  was  received  with 
noise  and  uproar,  and  treated  with  the  utmost  con- 
tempt by  the  orator  and  his  friends.  He  was  not 
permitted  to  show  the  progressive  accumulation  of 
theatrical  expenses,  the  nightly  charge  of  which,  from 
the  year  1702  to  1760,  had  been  raised  from  34  pounds 
to  above  90  pounds." 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  merits  of  the  dispute 
— and  it  was  argued  with  some  show  of  justice,  in  be- 
half of  the  patentee,  that  he  had  been  put  to  consid- 
erable extra  expense  through  the  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verojia — the  uproar  of  the  house  became  so  great  that 
Garrick  could  not  make  himself  heard.  As  it  seemed 
evident  that  he  had  no  intention  of  yielding  to  the 
popular  clamor  the  indignant  spectators  broke  out  into 
unrestrained  riot,  tore  up  the  seats,  smashed  the  lus- 
tres and  girandoles,  and  generally  behaved  themselves 
like  rufi&ans  of  the  most  approved  type.  And  that 
put  a  violent  end  to  the  performance  for  the  benefit 
of  the  unfortunate  and  unvictorious  Victor. 

When  the  next  night  came,  a  new  tragedy,  Elvira, 
was  the  attraction,  but  it  was  plainly  to  be  seen,  from 

*  It  was  demanded  that  ouly  half-price  should  be  charged 
after  the  third  act. 


A   GREAT  LIGHT  GOES  OUT.  275 

the  very  moment  the  doors  of  the  theatre  opened,  that 
the  play  was  not  the  thing  on  this  occasion.  As  Gar- 
rick  made  his  appearance,  several  in  the  large  audi- 
ence, now  in  tumultuous  mood,  cried  out  :  "Will  you 
or  will  you  not,  give  admittance  for  half-price,  after  the 
third  act  of  a  play,  except  during  the  first  winter  a 
pantomine  is  performed  ?  ' '  Garrick  replied  to  this 
demand  with  a  reluctant  ' '  Yes  ! ' '  upon  which  there 
was  loud  applause. 

The  episode  did  not  end  here,  for  the  house  now  in- 
sisted on  apologies  from  several  of  the  manager's  com- 
pany. It  is  hard  to  imagine  just  what  the  poor  players 
had  done  to  ask  pardon  about,  but  a  mob,  particularly 
an  English  one,  is  inclined  to  be  brutal,  and  it  was 
decided  that  the  fun  should  not  cease  with  the  submis- 
sion of  the  chief  offender.  Moody,  one  of  the  unfor- 
tunates, was  called  upon  to  express  his  contrition  for 
having  interfered,  the  previous  night,  with  a  scoundrel 
who  attempted  to  set  fire  to  the  theatre,  and  thinking 
that  he  would  get  out  of  the  difficulty  in  a  tactful  man- 
ner the  actor  said,  in  the  voice  of  a  low-comedy  Irish- 
man, that  "he  was  very  sorry  he  had  displeased  the 
audience  by  saving  their  lives  in  putting  out  the  fire. ' ' 
But  this  remark  added  fuel  to  the  flame,  instead  of  ex- 
tinguishing it.  Fierce  cries  of  * '  Down  on  your  knees  ! ' ' 
and  *  *  Ask  for  pardon  ! ' '  rang  through  the  house  with 
such  vehemence  that  it  was  plain  to  see  what  would 
have  been  Moody's  fate  had  he  been  in  the  pit,  or  even 
in  the  boxes.     But  he  was  not  to  be  frightened  into  so 


276  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

dishonorable  a  compliance  ;  he  boldly  faced  the  sea  of 
angry  faces  and  shouted  above  the  din,  "  I  will  not, 
by  G — ."  When  he  went  behind  the  scenes  Garrick, 
who  with  all  his  faults  could  sympathize  with  bravery, 
gave  him  an  admiring  embrace,  saying  at  the  same 
time  that  *  *  whilst  he  [Garrick]  was  master  of  a  guinea 
Moody  should  be  paid  his  income." 

This  was  a  pretty  little  incident,  of  course  (how 
charming  is  the  picture  of  the  mighty  David  unbend- 
ing in  the  presence  of  his  company  to  caress  one  of  his 
subordinates)  but  unfortunately  the  story  has  a  tamer 
conclusion.  What  does  the  prudent  Roscius  do  next 
but  bounce  on  the  stage  and  assure  the  howling  ruffi- 
ans that  Mr.  Moody  "  should  not  appear  again  during 
the  time  of  their  displeasure. ' '  The  man  who  so  often 
threw  his  soul  into  some  of  the  most  valiant  and  heroic 
of  theatrical  personages  could  not  even  imitate  the 
manliness  of  one  of  his  own  henchmen. 

In  the  meantime  things  resumed  their  normal  con- 
dition at  Drury  I^ane,  but  Moody  found  himself  in  an 
awkward  predicament.  He  was  unable  to  appear  at 
that  theatre,  and  yet  unwilling  either  to  take  one  of 
Garrick' s  treasured  guineas  or  to  leave  I^ondon  for  the 
provincial  stage.  Finally  he  took  the  bull  by  the 
horns,  or  rather  bearded  the  leonine  Fitzpatrick  in 
his  chambers  in  the  Temple.  *'I  suppose,  sir,  you 
know  me,"  said  Moody,  as  he  entered  the  room. 

"  Very  well,  sir  ;  and  how  came  I  by  the  honor  of 
this  visit  ?  ' '   demanded  the  astonished  Fitzpatrick. 


A    GREAT  LIGHT  GOES  OUT,  277 

**  How  dare  you  ask  me  that  question,  when  you 
know  what  passed  at  Drury  Lane,  where  I  was  called 
upon  to  dishonor  myself,  by  asking  pardon  of  the  audi- 
ence upon  my  knees." 

"  No,  sir,  I  was  not  the  person  who  spoke  to  you." 

"Sir,  you  did,  I  saw  you  and  heard  you.  And  what 
crime  had  I  committed  to  be  obliged  to  stoop  to  such 
an  ignominious  submission  ?  I  had  prevented  a  wretch 
from  setting  fire  to  the  playhouse,  and  had  espoused 
the  cause  of  a  gentleman  in  whose  services  I  had  en- 
listed !  " 

*'  I  do  not  understand  being  treated  in  this  manner 
in  my  own  house  ! ' ' 

' '  Sir,  I  will  attend  you  where  you  please ;  for,  be 
assured,  I  will  not  leave  you  till  you  have  satisfied  me 
one  way  or  other." 

It  is  pleasant  to  learn  that  after  much  parleying  be- 
tween Mr.  Fitzpatrick,  who  stood  very  much  upon  his 
dignity,  and  Mr.  Moody,  who  was  determined  to  have 
redress,  the  former  wrote  to  Garrick  that  whenever 
the  actor  should  be  allowed  on  the  stage  of  Drury 
lyane  he  (Fitzpatrick)  and  his  friends  would  attend 
and  help  to  reinstate  the  delinquent  in  the  popular 
regard.* 

*  Of  this  John  Moody,  who  proved  a  valuable  actor  in  his 
careful,  conscientious  way,  an  amusing  anecdote  was  related 
some  years  ago  in  the  Cornhill  Magazine.  Among  the  traits 
of  stupidity  put  to  the  account  of  actors,  by  which  droll  unre- 
hearsed effects  have  been  produced  on  the  stage,  there  is  none 
that  is  supposed  to  convey  greater  proof  of  stupidity  than  that 


2/8  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

And  now  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  greatest  actor 
of  his  time,  the  man  who  had  held  London  entranced 
for  twenty  years,  experienced  a  sudden  coldness  on  the 
part  of  the  public.  The  theatre-goer  has  from  days 
immemorial  claimed  the  right  to  be  capricious ;  he 
may  laud  a  player  to  the  skies  one  season  and  wish 
him  in  the  subterranean  regions  the  next ;  and  accord- 
ingly, when  the  Beggar's  Opera  had  a  revival  at  Cov- 
ent  Garden,  he  exercised  this  sacred  prerogative  by 
getting  madly  enthusiastic  over  the  new  Polly  Peachum, 
rich- voiced  Miss  Brent,*  and  turning  a  cold  shoulder 
on  the  idol  of  Drury  lyane.  All  the  beauties  of  Ham- 
let,   Ranger^    Benedick,    and    Lear — characters   which 

which  distinguished  the  actor  who  originally  represented  Lord 
Burghley  in  the  Critic.  The  names  of  several  players  are 
mentioned,  each  as  being  the  hero  of  this  story ;  but  the  orig- 
inal Lord  Burghley,  or  Burleigh,  was  Irish  Moody,  far  too 
acute  an  actor  to  be  suspected  for  a  fool.  When  Sheridan 
selected  him  for  the  part,  the  manager  declared  that  Moody 
would  be  sure  to  commit  some  ridiculous  error  and  ruin  the 
eflFect.  The  author  protested  that  such  a  result  was  impossible  ; 
and,  according  to  the  fashion  of  the  times,  a  wager  was  laid 
and  Sheridan  hurried  to  the  performer  of  the  part  to  give  him 
such  instructions  as  should  render  any  mistake  beyond  possi- 
bility. Lord  Burghley  has  nothing  to  say,  merely  to  sit  a  while; 
and  then,  as  the  stage  directions  informed  him,  and  as  Sheridan 
impressed  it  on  his  mind,  "  Lord  Burghley  comes  forward, 
pauses  near  Dangle,  shakes  his  head  and  exit."  The  actor 
thoroughly  understood  the  direction,  he  said,  and  could  not  err. 
At  night  he  came  forward,  did  pass  near  Dangle,  shook  his 
(Danglers)  head,  and  went  solemnly  off, 

*  Miss  Brent  was  a  pupil  of  Dr.  Arne,  and  had,  curiously 
enough,  been  refused  an  engagement  at  Drury  I^ane  prior  to 
her  success  in  the  Beggar's  Opera, 


A    CHEAT  LIGHT  GOES  OUT,  279 

Garrick  resuscitated  in  a  vain  endeavor  to  check  the 
tide  that  was  hurrying  the  people  towards  Covent 
Garden — were  as  nothing  to  the  attractions  of  Polly. 
'*  That  bewitching  syren  charmed  all  the  world,  and, 
like  another  Orpheus,  drew  crowds  perpetually  after 
her,"  while  on  one  awful  night  at  the  rival  house, 
when  Garrick  and  Mrs.  Gibber  acted,  the  receipts  were 
less  than  four  pounds  ! 

Poor  Garrick  !  This  was  more  than  human  nature, 
or  at  least  his  nature,  could  stand.  Mens  conscia  recH 
might  be  a  fine  old  Latin  motto,  very  admirable  when 
used  in  a  classic  tragedy,  but  what  was  the  conscious- 
ness of  intrinsic  merit  worth,  under  such  dismal  cir- 
cumstances, to  a  man  whose  very  existence  depended 
upon  the  applause  of  the  multitude  ?  What  availed  it 
to  be  the  most  distinguished  tragedian  or  comedian  in 
the  world  if  you  could  only  draw  three  pounds,  fifteen 
shillings  and  six  pence  per  night,  with  a  singing 
woman  piling  up  the  gold  at  another  house?  It  is 
quite  natural,  therefore,  that  the  deserted  favorite 
should  temporarily  relinquish  the  management  of 
Drury  I^ane  to  his  brother,  George  Garrick,  and  Mr. . 
lyacy,  and  take  a  European  tour  in  accompany  with 
the  most  faithful  and  devoted  of  wives,  who  during 
the  whole  of  their  married  life  was  never  absent  from 
her  illustrious  husband  for  so  long  a  space  as  twenty- 
four  hours. 

It  was  in  the  autumn  of  1763  that  the  Garricks  set 
out  on  a  journey  which  proved  a  decided  balm  to  the 


28o  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

soul  of  the  discomfited  David.  Everywhere  he  was 
received  with  the  greatest  kindness  and  consideration  ; 
he  had  a  special  audience  with  the  Duke  of  Parma, 
before  whom  he  recited  a  scene  from  Macbeth,  and  he 
felt  the  supreme  happiness  of  being  embraced  by  the 
fascinating  Mile.  Clairon.  This  French  actress  saw 
Garrick  represent,  in  pantomime,  the  grief  of  a  father 
over  the  death  of  his  child  ;  she  was  so  wrought  up  by 
the  superb  exhibition  of  power  that  she  caught  her 
surprised  colleague  around  the  neck,  kissed  him  fer- 
vently, and  then  politely  apologized  to  the  amused 
Mrs.  Garrick. 

Garrick  enjoyed  himself  thoroughly  for  more  than 
a  year  and  then  turned  his  face  homeward,*  after 
being  careful  to  send  in  advance  of  himself  a  poem 
called  The  Sick  Monkey.  This  effusion  was  written 
as  a  satirical  account  of  his  travels,  something  that 
should  disarm  the  criticism  of  his  enemies,  but  it 
proved  dull,  in  wretched  taste,  and  fell  as  flat  as  the 
much-quoted  pancake.  After  he  reached  London, 
however,  and  re-appeared  some  months  later  (Novem- 
ber, 1765)  as  the  crusty  Benedick,  King  George  III. 
applauded  from  the  royal  box  and  the  crowded  audi- 
ence showed  by  its  cheers  that  the  idol  had  been  re- 
placed on  his  well-earned  pedestal.  **  Mr.  Garrick 
has  benefited  by  his  wanderings,"  reported  the  crit- 
ics.    "  Kven  the  great  Roscius  may  learn  by  experi- 

*  He  had  become  alarmed,  no  doubt,  at  the  growing  popu- 
larity of  that  brilliant  young  actor,  William  Powell. 


A    GEE  AT  LIGHT  GOES  OUT.  28 1 

ence,"  said  one;  ''his  deportment  is  more  graceful 
and  his  manner  more  elegant, ' '  observed  another  ; 
and  "  he  has  given  up  all  theatrical  clap-trap,"  wisely 
added  a  third.  In  fine,  Davy  was  himself  again,  so 
far  as  public  favor  was  concerned,  although  physically 
he  was  already  on  the  wane.  Some  of  the  old-time 
vitality,  a  flash  of  the  early  fire,  might  be  missed  ;  the 
once  dainty  figure  had  grown  corpulent,  and  frequent 
attacks  of  gout  and  a  more  serious  trouble  warned  him 
that  he  could  no  longer  tax  his  strength  as  he  was 
wont  to  do.  No  one  was  more  alive  to  the  limitations 
which  age  was  fast  putting  on  his  genius  than  the 
actor  himself,  who  humorously  alluded  to  them  in  the 
prologue  which  he  spoke  on  the  revival  of  Much  Ado 
About  Nothing. 

"  In  four-and-twenty  years  the  spirits  cool ; 
Is  it  not  long  enough  to  play  the  fool  ? 
To  prove  it  is,  permit  me  to  repeat 
What  late  I  heard  in  passing  through  the  street ; 
A  youth  of  parts,  with  ladies  by  his  side, 
Thus  cocked  his  glass,  and  through  it  shot  my  pride  ; 
*^Tis  he,  by  Jove  !  grown  quite  a  clumsy  fellow, 
He  '' s fit fornothing  but  a  Punchinello  " — 
*  O  yes  !  for  comic  scenes.  Sir  John — no  further  ; 
He  's  much  too  fat  for  battles,  rapes  and  murther,' 
Worn  in  the  service,  you  my  faults  will  spare. 
And  make  allowance  for  the  wear  and  tear," 

We  next  hear  of  Garrick  as  hard  at  work  writing 
plays,  one  of  them  The  Country  Girl.  It  was  a  free  but 
decent  adaptation  of  Wycherley's  Country  Wife,  one 
of  the   most   filthy  plays  of  the  Restoration   period, 


282       ECHOES  OF   THE  PLA  YHOUSE. 

and  in  spite  of  its  attractiveness  in  this  new  dress 
it  suflfered  from  one  serious  drawback.  Miss  Reynolds, 
who  played  the  title  character,  was  too  old  and 
homely  to  look  the  ideal  country  girl  of  sixteen  or 
so.  Yet  what  theatre-goer  of  to-day  has  not  met  with 
a  like  anomaly,  and  become  hardened,  perhaps,  to 
Juliets  old  enough  to  be  grandmothers,  charming  but 
middle-aged  Portias,  Rosalinds  of  maternal,  benevolent 
aspect,  and  fine  Hamlets  of  fifty  or  sixty.  One  of  the 
best  modern  performances  of  Lady  Teazle  was  that 
given  several  years  ago  by  a  gifted  artiste  of  seventy, 
who  can  still  delight  an  audience  as  do  but  few  liv- 
ing actresses.  We  are  lenient  with  such  a  drawback, 
for  we  know  that  when  a  woman  plays  Lady  Teazle 
or  Juliet  as  she  should,  she  is  often  too  old  to  look 
the  part.  But  in  the  days  of  Garrick  critics  and  public 
were  not  always  so  philosophical,  and  the  Country  Girl 
hardly  met  with  the  success  anticipated  by  the  author. 
Garrick' s  brilliant  career  was  now  drawing  to  a  close. 
We  can  leave  to  better  biographers  the  account  of  his 
last  professional  years,  not  even  halting  to  describe 
his  participation  in  the  Stratford  Jubilee  (held  osten- 
sibly in  honor  of  Shakespeare  but  given  quite  as 
much  in  recognition  of  Garrick),  and  hurrying  on  to 
that  tearful  night*  of  June  lo,   1776,  when  this  Titan 

*  About  the  same  time  Garrick  sold  his  share  in  the  patent 
of  Drury  Lane  for  ;^35,ooo.  The  purchasers  were  Richard 
Brinsley  Sheridan,  Thomas  I^inley,  and  Richard  Ford,  and  Sheri- 
dan assumed  the  actual  management  of  the  theatre. 


A    GREAT  LIGHT  GOES  OUT,  283 

of  the  stage  bid  farewell  to  it  forever.  Before  that  last 
performance,  Garrick  appeared  in  a  round  of  his  most 
famous  characters ;  and  that  entertaining  raconteur, 
Frederick  Reynolds,  tells  how  he  saw  the  great  man's 
final  presentation  of  Hamlet. 

**On  the  morning  of  that  day,"  says  Reynolds, 
**  Perkins,  who  was  my  father's  wig  maker,  as  well  as 
Garrick's,  cut  and  trimmed  my  hair  for  the  occasion. 
During  the  operation  he  told  me,  that  when  I  saw 
Garrick  first  behold  the  ghost,  I  should  see  each  indi- 
vidual hair  of  his  head  stand  upright ;  and  he  con- 
cluded, by  hoping,  that  though  I  so  much  admired 
the  actor,  I  would  reserve  a  mite  of  approbation  for 
him,  as  the  artist  of  this  most  ingenious,  mechanical 
wig  ;  '  the  real  cause, '  he  added,  '  entre  nous,  of  his 
prodigious  effects  in  that  vScene.'  Whether  this  story 
was  related  by  the  facetious  perruquier  to  puff  himself, 
or  to  hoax  me,  I  will  not  pretend  to  decide  ;  but  this  I 
can  say  with  truth,  that  though  I  did  not  see  Garrick's 
hair  rise  perpendicularly,  mine  did,  when  he  broke 
from  Horatio  and  Marcellus,  with  anger  flashing  from 
'  his  two  balls  of  fire  '  (as  his  eyes  were  rightly  called) 
exclaiming, 

*  By  heaveu,  I  *11  make  a  ghost  of  him  that  lets  me.'  " 

The  narrator  was  also  on  hand  on  the  farewell  even- 
ing. Garrick  played  Felix  in  The  Wonder  with  a  fire 
that  made  him  young  again  and  afterwards  addressed 
the  enthusiastic  yet  sorrowing  house,  broke  down  in 


284  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

the  middle  of  this,  the  most  pathetic  Epilogue  of  his 
life,  recovered  himself,  ended  his  valedictory  and  then, 
solemnly  bowing,  walked  off  the  stage  forever,  amid 
the  mingled  tears  and  plaudits  of  the  brilliant  assem- 
blage. On  this  night,  continues  Reynolds,  ' '  my 
brother  Jack  and  I,  after  waiting  two  hours,  succeeded 
at  length  in  entering  the  pit.  But  the  commencement 
of  the  evening  was  somewhat  unfortunate  to  my  brother, 
who,  during  the  struggle  in  the  pit  passage,  not  only 
had  his  watch  stolen,  but  so  completely  lost  his  temper 
that,  on  the  detection  of  the  thief,  who  immediately 
offered  to  restore  the  property.  Jack,  instead  of  receiv- 
ing it,  with  all  the  fury  of  an  enraged  young  lawyer  de- 
termined to  have  the  stolen  goods  found  on  him.  Ac- 
cordingly he  seized  him,  and  shouted  for  police  officers — 
in  vain  ;  the  crowd  involuntarily  prevented  a  possibility 
of  their  interference.  .  .  .  Jack  now  dragged  the 
thief  into  the  pit,  and  again  called  loudly  for  police 
officers,  who  at  length  came,  though  somewhat  late ; 
for  owing  to  the  increased  confusion  the  bird  had  at 
length  broken  from  Jack  and  flown  ! 

"The  riot  and  struggle  for  places  can  scarcely 
be  imagined,"  continues  Reynolds,  **even  from  the 
above  anecdote.  Though  a  side  box  close  to  where 
we  sat  was  completely  filled,  we  beheld  the  door  burst 
open,  and  an  Irish  gentleman  attempt  to  make  entry, 
vi  et  armis.  '  Shut  the  door,  box-keeper,'  loudly  cried 
some  of  the  party,  '  There 's  room  by  the  pow'rs  !  * 
cried  the  Irishman,  and  persisted  in  advancing.     On 


A    GREA  T  LIGHT  GOES  OUT.  2^5 

this,  a  gentleman  in  the  second  row  rose,  and  exclaimed, 
*  Turn  out  that  blackguard  ! '  'Oh,  and  that  is  your 
mode,  honey  ?  '  coolly  retorted  the  Irishman,  *  come, 
come  out,  my  dear,  and  give  me  satisfaction,  or  I  '11 
pull  your  nose,  faith,  you  coward,  and  shillaly  you 
through  the  lobby  ! ' 

''This  public  insult  left  the  tenant  in  possession  no 
alternative  ;  so  he  rushed  out  to  accept  the  challenge  ; 
when,  to  the  pit's  general  amusement,  the  Irishman 
jumped  into  his  place,  and  having  deliberately  seated 
and  adjusted  himself,  he  turned  around  and  cried  ;  '  I  '11 
talk  to  you  after  the  play  is  over.' 

' '  The  comedy  of  The  Wonder  commenced,  but  I 
have  scarcely  any  recollection  of  what  passed  during 
its  representation  ;  or,  if  I  had,  would  it  not  be  tedious 
to  repeat  a  ten  times  told  tale?*  I  only  remember 
that  Garrick  and  his  hearers  were  mutually  afifected  by 
the  farewell  address ;  particularly  in  that  part  where 
he  said  'The  jingle  of  rhyme  and  the  language  of 
fiction  would  but  ill  suit  his  present  feelings  '  and  also, 
when  putting  his  hand  to  his  breast  he  exclaimed, 
'  Whatever  may  be  the  changes  of  my  future  life,  the 
deepest  impression  of  your  gratitude  will  remain  here, 
fixed  and  unalterable.'  Still,  however,  though  my 
memory  will  not  allow  me  to  dwell  further  on  the 
events  of  the  evening  my  pride  will  never  permit  me 
to  forget,  that  I  witnessed  Garrick's  dramatic  death." 

The  physical  death  of  this  wondrous  player,  who 
*  Would  that  lie  had  done  so,  nevertheless. 


286  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

had  so  often  mimicked  the  Grim  Visitor  that  now  stood 
upon  his  threshold,  occurred  peacefully  and  painlessly 
on  January  20,  1779.  Two  days  after  the  funeral  (his 
remains  were  laid  with  great  pomp  and  ceremony  at 
the  base  of  Shakespeare's  statue  in  Poet's  Comer, 
Westminster  Abbey)  his  brother  George  Garrick  went 
over  to  the  great  Majority,  fitly  enough,  as  it  seemed. 
George  had  been  David's  right  hand  man  at  Drury 
I^ane,  a  Fidus  Achates  as  well  as  a  relation.  On  his 
returning  to  the  theatre  after  a  brief  absence  he  would 
invariably  ask  ' '  Has  my  brother  wanted  me  ?  ' '  and 
when  he  was  gathered  unto  his  fathers,  a  friend  said 
wittily  but  tenderly,  **  His  brother  wanted  him.'* 


I     z 

v\ 

<    ^ 

-I     z 

3  a: 
cc  "- 
Q 

^    2 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THK  SP ARRIVING  SH:eRIDAN. 

* '  T  HAVE  been  very  seriously  at  work  on  a  book, 
X  which  I  am  just  now  sending  to  the  press,  and 
which  I  think  will  do  me  some  credit,  if  it  leads  to 
nothing  else.  However,  the  profitable  afiair  is  of 
another  nature.  There  will  be  a  Comedy  of  mine  in 
rehearsal  at  Covent  Garden  within  a  few  days.  I  did 
not  set  to  work  on  it  till  within  a  few  days  of  my  set- 
ting out  for  Crome,  so  you  may  think  I  have  not,  for 
these  last  six  weeks,  been  very  idle.  I  have  done  it  at 
Mr.  Harris's  (the  manager's)  own  request ;  it  is  now 
complete  in  his  hands,  and  preparing  for  the  stage. 
He,  and  some  of  his  friends  also  who  have  heard  it, 
assure  me  in  the  most  flattering  terms  that  there  is  not 
a  doubt  of  its  success.  It  will  be  very  well  played, 
and  Harris  tells  me  that  the  least  shilling  I  shall  get 
(if  it  succeeds)  will  be  six  hundred  pounds.  I  shall 
make  no  secret  of  it  towards  the  time  of  representation, 
that  it  may  not  lose  any  support  my  friends  can  give  it. 
I  had  not  written  a  line  of  it  two  months  ago,  except 
a  scene  or  two,  which  I  believe  you  have  seen  in  an 
oiF  act  of  a  little  farce. ' ' 

287 


288  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLA  Y HO  USE. 

Thus  wrote  a  certain  young  gentleman  to  his  father- 
in-law,  Thomas  Linley,  in  November,  1774.  It  need 
hardly  be  added  that  the  son-in-law  was  Richard  Brins- 
ley  Sheridan,  who,  at  the  early  age  of  twenty-three, 
had  translated  Aristaenetus,  fought  a  couple  of  duels, 
eloped  with  and  married,  the  beautiful  Miss  lyinley  of 
Bath,  and  just  completed  a  comedy  which  is  still  con- 
sidered one  of  the  most  delightful  in  the  English 
language. 

This  prodig}^ — for  so  must  have  been  the  man  who 
could  produce  both  The  Rivals  and  The  School  for 
Scandal  before  he  reached  his  thirtieth  year — was  the 
son  of  Thomas  Sheridan,  the  self-constituted  rival  of 
Garrick,  and  the  grandson  of  Dr.  Sheridan,  who  ob- 
tained a  sort  of  reflected  glory  from  his  intimacy  with 
Jonathan  Swift.  Richard's  mother,  charming  woman, 
had  intellectual  gifts  of  a  much  more  than  respectable 
order ;  she  was  the  author  of  several  long-since  for- 
gotten novels  and  of  a  play*  which  so  august  an 
authority  as  Garrick  pronounced  * '  one  of  the  best 
comedies  he  ever  read."  Another  comedy  of  hers, 
which  never  saw  the  light,  might  have  possessed  in- 
terest even  for  posterity,  since  Tom  Moore  records 
that  it  '  *  has  been  supposed  by  some  of  those  sagacious 
persons,  who  love  to  look  for  flaws  in  the  titles  of 
fame,  to  have  passed,  with  her  other  papers,  into  the 
possession  of  her  son,  and  after  a  transforming  sleep, 
like  that  of  the  chrysalis,  in  his  hands,  to  have  taken 

*  The  Discovery. 


THE  SPARKLING  SHERIDAN.  289 

wing  at  length  in  the  brilliant  form  of  The  Rivals'^ 
Poor  lady  !  even  were  this  true,  you  never  would  have 
grudged  your  erratic  son  the  fame  of  it  all. 

As  a  schoolboy  young  Richard  proved  a  dismal  fail- 
ure, and  he  who,  in  less  than  thirty  years  afterwards, 
* '  held  senates  enchained  by  his  eloquence  and  audi- 
ences fascinated  by  his  wit,  was,  by  common  consent 
both  of  parent  and  preceptor,  pronounced  to  be  *  a 
most  impenetrable  dunce.'  "  At  Harrow  he  was  a 
sad  fellow  when  it  came  to  study  hours,  but  at  play- 
time he  proved  so  lovable,  manly,  and  genial  that  he 
suffered  less  punishment  for  his  indolence  than  might 
otherwise  have  been  meted  out  to  him.  The  erudite 
Dr.  Parr,  then  one  of  the  under-masters  of  the  school, 
wrote  of  Sheridan  many  years  later :  '  *  There  was 
little  in  his  boyhood  worth  communication.  He  was 
inferior  to  many  of  his  school-fellows  in  the  ordinary 
business  of  school,  and  I  do  not  remember  any  one 
instance  in  which  he  distinguished  himself  by  lyatin 
or  English  composition,  in  prose  or  verse.  .  .  . 
His  eye,  his  countenance,  his  general  manner,  were 
striking.  His  answers  to  any  common  question  were 
prompt  and  acute.  We  knew  the  esteem,  and  even 
admiration,  which,  somehow  or  other,  all  his  school- 
fellows felt  for  him.  He  was  mischievous  enough, 
but  his  pranks  were  accompanied  by  a  sort  of  vivac- 
ity and  cheerfulness  which  delighted  Sumner*  and  my- 
self.    I  had  much  talk  with  him  about  his  apple-loft, 

*  Dr.  Robert  Sumner,  then  the  upper-master. 


290  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

for  the  supply  of  which  all  the  gardens  in  the  neigh- 
borhood were  taxed,  and  some  of  the  lower  boys  were 
employed  to  furnish  it.  I  threatened,  but  without 
asperity,  to  trace  the  depredators  through  his  associ- 
ates, up  to  their  leader.  He,  with  perfect  good-hu- 
mor, set  me  at  defiance,  and  I  never  could  bring  the 
charge  home  to  him." 

This  bright  young  scamp,  who  could  steal  apples, 
neglect  his  lessons,  and  yet  endear  himself  to  his 
teachers  by  his  natural  charm  and  sprightliness,  soon 
grew  ambitious.  He  had  a  soul  above  apples  after 
all ;  he  longed  for  the  airy  pinnacle  of  a  literary  celeb- 
rity, and  in  the  year  1770,  when  he  is  living  with  his 
father  at  Bath,  we  find  him  scheming  with  an  old 
Harrow  chum,  young  Halhead,  now  at  Oxford,  to 
make  the  world  ring  with  the  sound  of  their  names. 
They  are  so  boyish  about  it  all,  too ;  as,  for  instance, 
when  they  determine  to  translate  the  epistles  of  Aris- 
taenetus,  about  whom  nobody  cares,  and  especially 
when  done  into  English  by  two  unknown  lads.  Then 
they  write  a  parody  Qa\\^6.  Jupiter,  which  never  gets 
acted  ;  they  issue  one  number  of  a  rather  puerile 
paper  called  Hernan' s  Miscellany,  and  plan  half  a 
dozen  works  whose  brilliancy  must  surely  set  the 
Thames  on  fire. 

The  only  tangible  result  of  this  literary  partnership 
is  that  translation  of  Aristsenetus,  which  is  expected 
to  win  so  much  classical  reputation  for  the  appren- 
tices.    The  first  part  of  the  work — alas  !  there  never 


THE  SPARKLING  SHERIDAN.  29 1 

was  the  least  demand  for  the  second  part — appeared 
anonymously  in  August,  1771,  and  for  a  time  all  too 
brief  the  ambitious  authors  deceived  themselves  with 
dreams  as  to  its  success.  Several  of  the  reviews  are 
fairly  favorable,  and  a  friend  writes  to  Sheridan  :  *  *  It 
begins  to  make  some  noise,  and  is  fathered  on  Mr. 
Johnson,  author  of  the  English  Dictionary ^  Poor 
Johnson  ! 

Then  comes  a  harsh  critic  who  growls  :  * '  No  such 
writer  as  Aristaenetus  ever  existed  in  the  classic  sera  ; 
nor  did  even  the  unhappy  schools,  after  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  Eastern  Empire,  produce  such  a  writer. 
It  was  left  to  the  latter  times  of  monkish  imposition 
to  give  such  trash  as  this,  on  which  the  translator  has 
ill  spent  his  time.  We  have  been  as  idly  employed 
in  reading  it,  and  our  readers  will  in  proportion  lose 
their  time  in  perusing  this  article."  Ungenerous 
man  !  Perhaps  you  enjoyed,  later  on,  the  wit  and 
sparkle  of  The  Rivals  or  the  School  for  Scandal^  and 
never  knew  that  the  playwright  who  gave  you  such 
unstinted  pleasure  was  the  aspiring  young  person 
whom  you  had  so  unmercifully  rebuked. 

With  all  their  zeal  for  classic  lore  and  modem  fame 
there  was  one  passion  which  the  translators  found 
much  more  poetic  and  enthralling.  They  had  both 
fallen  madly  in  love  with  the  lovely  "  Maid  of  Bath  " 
— Halhead  deeply  but  hopelessly  ;  Sheridan,  as  was 
his  way,  impetuously  and  buoyantly.  Miss  lyinley, 
then  not  more  than  sixteen   or  seventeen,   was  a  fit 


292  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

subject  for  such  ardent  heroine-worship.  The  daugh- 
ter of  an  eminent  composer,  she  followed  out  the  mu- 
sical traditions  of  the  family  by  singing  in  oratorio, 
but  no  amount  of  publicity  or  admiration  could  de- 
stroy the  bloom  of  her  girlish  sweetness  and  modesty, 
or  take  away  one  whit  of  the  gentleness  and  purity  of 
that  angelic  face.* 

' '  Her  exquisite  and  delicate  loveliness,  all  the  more 
fascinating  for  the  tender  sadness  which  seemed,  as  a 
contemporary  describes  it,  to  project  over  her  the 
shadow  of  early  death  ;  her  sweet  voice,  and  the  pathetic 
expression  of  her  singing,  the  timid  and  touching  grace 
of  her  air  and  deportment,  had  won  universal  admira- 
tion for  Eliza  Ann  lyinley.  From  the  days  when,  a 
girl  of  nine,  she  stood  with  her  little  basket  at  the  pump- 
room  door,  timidly  offering  the  tickets  for  her  father's 
benefit  concerts,  to  those  when,  in  her  teens,  she  was 
the  belle  of  the  Bath  assemblies,  none  could  resist  her 
beseeching  grace.  I^overs  and  wooers  flocked  about 
her  ;  Richard  Walter  lyong,  the  Wiltshire  miser,  laid  his 
thousands  at  her  feet.  Even  Foote,  when  he  took  the 
story  of  Miss  lyinley's  rejection  of  that  sordid  old 
hunks  as  the  subject  of  his  Maid  of  Bath,  in  1770, 
laid  no  stain  of  his  satirical  brush  on  her.  Nor  had 
she  resisted  only  the  temptation  of  money  :  coronets, 
it  was  whispered,  had  been  laid  at  her  feet  as  well  as 
money.     When  she  appeared  at  the  Oxford  oratorios, 

*  "  To  see  her  as  she  stood  siuging  beside  me  at  the  pianoforte 
was  like  looking  into  the  face  of  an  angel." — Wii,i,iam  Jackson. 


THE   SPARKLING  SHERIDAN.  293 

grave  dons  and  young  gentlemen  were  alike  subdued. 
In  I^ondon,  where  she  sang  at  Covent  Garden,  in  the 
Lent  of  1773,  the  King  himself  is  said  to  have  been  as 
much  fascinated  by  her  eyes  and  voice  as  by  the  music 
of  his  favorite  Handel."* 

Sheridan's  courtship  prospered,  notwithstanding  the 
claims  and  importunities  of  more  pretentious  admirers, 
one  of  whom  happened  to  be  his  brother  Charles.  The 
melancholy,  love-lorn  Halhead  took  himself  out  of  the 
lists  altogether  by  going  to  India,  and  the  now  success- 
ful suitor  gave  vent  to  his  poetic  muse  in  several  well- 
tuned  love  verses,  such  as 

"  Dry  be  that  tear,  my  gentlest  love, 
Be  hush'd  that  struggling  sigh. 
Nor  seasons,  day,  nor  fate  shall  prove 
More  fix'd,  more  true  than  I. 
Hush'd  be  that  sigh,  be  dry  that  tear. 
Cease  boding  doubt,  cease  anxious  fear, — 
Dry  be  that  tear." 

Whether  the  * '  boding  doubt ' '  and  '  *  anxious  fear  ' ' 
thus  referred  to  had  anything  to  do  with  the  unwelcome 
attentions  of  the  blackguardly  Captain  Mathews  it  is 
now  hard  to  say,  but  it  is  certain  that  the  unpleasant 
notoriety  into  which  this  married  rotie  was  fast  bring- 
ing the  young  singer  influenced  her  sudden  determi- 
nation to  seek  temporary  refuge  in  a  French  convent. 
Sheridan  gladly  fell  in  with  this  rather  wild  project ;  he 
saw  in  it  the  prospect  of  a  wedding  rather  than  a  con- 

*  I^eslie' s  Life  of  Reynolds, 


294  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

vent,  and  thus  it  came  about  that  on  a  certain  evening 
when  Mr.  I^inley  and  several  of  his  family  ("a  nest  of 
nightingales"  Dr.  Burney  called  them)  were  absent 
at  a  concert,  one  of  the  nightingales  flew  away.  Young 
Richard  appears  at  her  father's  house  with  a  sedan 
chair,  takes  the  fair  charmer  to  a  postchaise  waiting  for 
them  on  the  I^ondon  Road,  and  here,  being  joined  by 
a  woman  "specially  engaged  "  to  play  Propriety,  they 
set  out  on  their  adventurous  journey.  Arrived  in  Lon- 
don, the  now  cautious  lover  introduces  his  intended 
bride  to  a  wealthy  brandy  merchant,  an  old  friend  of 
the  Sheridan  family,  as  a  rich  heiress  who  was  eloping 
with  him  to  the  Continent ;  the  old  man  is  delighted 
at  Richard's  wisdom,  compliments  him,  too,  on  having 
given  up  all  ideas  of  marrying  "  that  Miss  I^inley,  of 
Bath,"  and  enables  the  couple  to  make  good  their 
immediate  escape  to  France. 

It  would  be  going  into  ancient  history,  however,  to 
narrate  how  they  were  married  by  a  priest  at  a  little 
village  near  Calais,  how  they  were  finally  induced  to 
return  home,  and  how  Sheridan  fought  two  duels  with 
that  prince  of  hounds,  Mathews,  and  got  seriously 
wounded  in  the  second  encounter.  Meanwhile,  the 
respective  fathers  of  the  young  lovers  were  deeply  cha- 
grined at  the  whole  afiair.  Sheridan,  fearful  that  an 
avowal  of  the  marriage  would  cause  Mr,  Linley  to 
separate  Mrs.  Sheridan  from  him  forever,  never  told  of 
the  ceremony  at  Calais,  and  the  supposed  Miss  Linley, 
no  less  reticent,  went  on  living  with  her  father,  sing- 


THE   SPARKLING  SHERIDAN.  295 

ing  divinely  and  looking  lovelier  and  more  pathetic 
than  ever.  One  hears  several  pretty  stories  about  the 
shifts  to  which  the  two  unhappy  ones  were  reduced  so 
as  to  get  a  glimpse  of  each  other,  one  anecdote,  the 
most  romantic  of  them  all,  picturing  Sheridan  dis- 
guised as  a  hackney  coachman,  driving  his  wife  home 
from  a  Coyent  Garden  concert.  At  last,  as  all  the 
world  and  his  wife  know,  the  stern  heart  of  the  pater- 
nal lyinley  relented,  the  misery,  the  romance,  the  stolen 
conversations,  and  the  surreptitious  glances  came  to 
an  end,  and  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan  and  Kliza  Ann 
Sheridan,  his  wife,  went  through  the  formality  of  a 
duly  English  marriage,  under  ofl&cial  license,  in  April, 

1773- 

The  now  twice-married  couple  settled  down  quietly 
in  a  little  cottage  at  East  Burnham,  and  though  their 
resources  were  limited  Sheridan  manfully  refused  to 
allow  his  wife  to  sing  any  more  in  public,  notwith- 
standing the  tempting  offers  of  managers  from  differ- 
ent parts  of  the  kingdom.  In  so  doing  he  naturally 
deprived  the  concert-stage  of  a  rare  acquisition,  and 
put  an  extinguisher  on  Mrs.  Sheridan's  professional 
career ;  but  as  she  was  only  too  glad  to  give  up  her 
vocation  and  Sheridan  himself  had  no  idea  of  living 
off  the  earnings  of  his  companion,  nobody  had  a  right 
to  complain.  Such  a  disposition  of  affairs  might  not 
have  suited  the  ''New  Woman,"  but  unfortunately, 
that  indispensable  personage  had  not  then  appeared 
on  the  social  horizon. 


296  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

Dr.  Johnson,  in  his  dogmatic  way,  highly  approved 
of  Sheridan's  decision.  '*We  talked,"  says  Boswell, 
"of  a  young  gentleman's  marriage  with  an  eminent 
singer,  and  his  determination  that  she  should  no  longer 
sing  in  public,  though  his  father  was  very  earnest  she 
should  because  her  talents  would  be  liberally  rewarded. 
It  was  questioned  whether  the  young  gentleman,  who 
had  not  a  shilling  in  the  world,  but  was  blessed  with 
very  uncommon  talents,  was  not  foolishly  delicate  or 
foolishly  proud,  and  his  father  truly  rational  without 
being  mean.  Johnson,  with  all  the  high  spirit  of  a 
Roman  senator,  exclaimed  :  '  He  resolved  wisely  and 
nobly,  to  be  sure.  He  is  a  brave  man.  Would  not  a 
gentleman  be  disgraced  by  having  his  wife  singing 
publicly  for  hire?  No,  sir,  there  can  be  no  doubt 
here.'" 

Thus  we  come  down  on  a  quick  pace  to  the  anx- 
iously awaited  night  of  January  ry,  1775,  when  The 
Rivals  was  produced  at  Covent  Garden,  with  Edward 
Shuter  as  Sir  Anthony  Absolute,  Woodward  as  Captain 
Absolute,  I^ewis  as  Falkland,  Quick  as  Acres,  Lee  as 
Sir  Lucius  O'  Trigger,  Mrs.  Green  as  Mrs.  Malaprop, 
and  Miss  Barnsanti  as  Lydia  Languish.  The  first 
performance  of  the  play  was  a  failure,  principally  be- 
cause Mr.  lyce  made  so  poor  an  impression  as  Sir  Lu- 
cius ;  he  was  replaced  in  the  part  by  a  Mr.  Clinch,  and 
the  false  start  was  soon  forgotten  in  the  popularity  that 
attended  ensuing  presentations  of  this  rare  comedy. 
We  who  have  seen  it  acted  by  that  incomparable  com- 


THE  SPARKLING  SHERIDAN,  297 

pany  headed  by  Joseph  Jefferson  (the  most  lovable  and 
humorous  of  Acres),  Mrs.  John  Drew  (the  inimitable 
Malaprop),  and  the  late  William  J.  Florence  (an  ideal 
Sir  Lucius)  may  well  ask  whether  The  Rivals  had  so 
fine  an  illustration  on  its  introduction  to  the  stage. 
The  original  cast  seems  to  have  been,  with  one  or  two 
exceptions,  capable  rather  than  strikingly  effective. 
Shuter,  to  be  sure,  was  considered  by  Garrick  to  be 
the  greatest  comic  genius  he  had  ever  seen,  but  his 
humor  was  broad  and  inclined  to  buffoonery,  and  one 
can  imagine  that  the  choleric  Sir  Anthony,  as  he 
played  him,  must  have  been  more  grateful  to  the  gal- 
leries than  to  the  critics.*  Woodward,  versatile  com- 
edian that  he  was,  could  hardly  have  been  at  his  best 
as  the  ardent  Captain  Absolute,  while  vain  little  Quick, 

*  This  performer  was  once  engaged  for  a  few  nights  in  a  prin- 
cipal city  in  the  north  of  England.  It  happened  that  the  stage 
that  he  went  down  in  (and  in  which  there  was  only  an  old 
gentleman  and  himself)  was  stopped  on  the  road  by  a  single 
highwayman.  The  old  gentleman,  in  order  to  save  his  own 
money,  pretended  to  be  asleep,  but  Shuter  resolved  to  be  even 
with  him.  Accordingly,  when  the  highwayman  presented  his 
pistol,  and  commanded  Shuter  to  deliver  his  money  instantly, 
or  he  was  a  dead  man — "  Money,"  returned  he,  with  an  idiotic 
shrug  and  a  countenance  inexpressibly  vacant — "  Oh,  I/ud,  sir, 
they  never  trust  me  with  any  ;  for  my  uncle  here  always  pays 
for  me,  turnpikes  and  all,  your  honor!"  Upon  which  the 
highwayman  gave  him  a  few  curses  for  his  stupidity,  compli- 
mented the  old  gentleman  with  a  smart  slap  on  the  face  to 
awaken  him,  and  robbed  him  of  every  shilling  he  had  in  his 
pocket,  while  Shuter,  who  did  not  lose  a  single  farthing,  pur- 
sued his  journey  with  great  satisfaction  and  merriment,  laugh- 
ing heartily  at  his  fellow-traveller.—  Theatrical  Anecdotes, 


298  ECHOES  OF  THE  PL  A  Y HO  USE. 

the  first  of  To7iy  Lumpkins,  in  whom  "  noise  and  ex- 
travagance ' '  were  substituted  for  *  *  nature  and  hu- 
mor, ' '  probably  missed  not  a  few  of  the  delicately  put 
on  colors  in  the  figure  of  ' '  fighting  Bob. ' '  William 
lycwis,  no  doubt,  made  a  gentlemanly  and  effective 
Falkland,  and  L<ee  Lewes,  one  of  the  great  Harlequins 
of  his  time,  may  have  been  a  suitable  Fag,  but  it  is 
safe  to  assume  that  Mrs.  Green,  a  droll  but  by  no 
means  great  actress,  was  not  the  very  best  of  Mala- 
props.  The  names  of  Barnsanti,  Dunstal,  Fearon, 
Mrs.  Bulkley,  and  Mrs.  Lessingham,  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  cast,  signified  little  then  and  nothing  now. 
Can  it  then  be  possible  that  a  fin  de  Steele  audience 
has  seen  a  finer  performance  of  The  Rivals  than  that 
vouchsafed  the  frequenters  of  Covent  Garden  on  the 
great  initial  night?  Certainly  our  conservative  old 
gentleman,  who  mourns  for  the  ' '  palmy  days ' '  of  his 
past,  will  never  admit  such  a  heresy  into  his  theatrical 
catechism. 

A  still  greater  triumph  than  the  ultimate  success  of 
The  Rivals  is  awaiting  the  now  much  be-praised  Sheri- 
dan. First  he  collaborates  with  Mr.  I^inley  in  writing 
the  opera  of  The  Duenna,  which  has  a  run  of  over  sev- 
enty nights  at  Covent  Garden  during  the  season  of 
1775-6*  ;  then  he  combines  with  Mr.  I^inley  and  Dr. 

*  "  In  order  to  counteract  this  great  success  of  the  rival  house, 
Garrick  found  it  necessary  to  bring  forward  all  the  weight  of 
his  own  best  characters  ;  and  even  had  recourse  to  the  expedi- 
ent of  playing  off  the  mother  against  the  son,  by  reviving  Mrs. 
Frances  Sheridan's  comedy  of  The  Discovery,  zm  \  acting  the 


THE   SPARKLING  SHERIDAN,  299 

Ford  to  purchase  Garrick's  interest  in  the  Drury  I^ane 
Theatre,  and  next  brings  out,  in  his  new  capacity  of 
manager,  his  adaptation  of  Vanbrugh's  Relapse,  called 
A  Trip  to  Scarborough.  Still  this  is  merely  prelimi- 
nary to  the  greatest  epoch  in  the  purely  theatrical  por- 
tion of  his  life,  that  8th  of  May,  1777,  when  The  School 
for  Scandal  first  sees  the  light. 

The  new  comedy  gave  Sheridan  much  greater  con- 
cern than  did  The  Rivals  ;  he  had  changed  the  story, 
elaborated  the  dialogue,  and  polished  up  the  epigrams 
materially  before  the  final  draft  was  ready  for  the 
prompter,  nor  is  it  strange,  therefore,  to  find  that  while 
it  lacks  the  spontaneity  and  naturalness  of  its  prede- 
cessor, The  School  for  Scandal  is  far  more  witty  and  scin- 
tillating. It  may  be  artificial — was  not  the  life  it 
pictured  artificial — and  it  is  worse  than  faulty  from  a 
dramatic  standpoint,  yet  its  sparkle  is  still  undimmed 
more  than  a  century  after  the  first  production.  Though 
the  play  be  merely  the  champagne  of  Sheridan's  gen- 
ius, the  vintage  is  a  rich  one,  and  seems  to  improve 
with  age. 

The  circumstances  under  which  the  new  comedy  first 
appeared  were  probably  much  more  favorable,  with  re- 
spect to  the  cast,  than  in  the  case  of  The  Rivals,  for  this 
was  the  assignment  of  characters  : 

principal  part  in  it  himself.  In  allusion  to  the  increased  fa- 
tigue which  this  competition  with  The  Duenna  brought  upon 
Garrick,  who  was  then  entering  on  his  sixtieth  year,  it  was  said, 
by  an  actor  of  the  day,  that  "  the  old  woman  would  be  the  death 
of  the  old  man."— Moors. 


300 


ECHOES  OF  THE  PLA  YHOUSE.  \ 


Sir  Peter  Teazle 

Sir  Oliver  Surface     . 

Joseph  Surface 

Charles  Surface 

Crabtree. 

Sir  Benjamin  Backbite 

Rowley 

Moses 

Trip  . 

Snake 

Careless 

Sir  Harry  Bumper 


Lady  Teazle 

Maria 

Lady  Sneerwell 

Mrs.  Candour    . 


Mr.  King. 
Mr.  Yates. 
Mr.  Palmer. '  ^ 
Mr.  Smith.    ' 
Mr.  Parsons. 
Mr.  Dodd. 
Mr.  Aickin. 
Mr.  Baddeley. 
Mr.  Lamash. 
Mr.  Packer. 
Mr.  Farren. 
Mr.  Gawdry. 


Mrs.  Abington 
Miss  P.  Hopkins. 
Miss  Sherry. 
Miss  Pope. 


The  most  brilliant  star  in  this  galaxy  was  the  beau- 
tiful Mrs.  Abington,  who  had  such  various  claims  to 
celebrity.  She  was  the  questionable  heroine  of  several 
as  questionable  amours  (had  not  Garrick  called  her 
*'  that  worst  of  women  ?  "),  and  she  came  out  of  the 
dregs  of  I^ondon  life,  yet  she  triumphed  over  her  sur- 
roundings, developed  into  an  actress  of  rare  spirit  and 
humor,  set  the  fashions  for  society,*  which  even  ad- 
mitted her  within  its  well-guarded  precincts,  had  her 
portrait  painted  by  the  great  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  and 
earned  the  encomiums  of  Horace  Walpole.  It  was  the 
latter  who  wrote  of  her,  referring  to  an  unfounded  re- 
mor  that  she  had  retired  from  the  stage  : 


*  The  once  popular  *'  Abington  "  caps  were  named  in  honor 
of  this  actress. 


THOMAS  KING. 

IN    BEAUMONT   AND    FLETCHER'S         RULE  A   WIFE   AND    HAVE   A   WIFE." 
FROM    A    DRAWING    BY    DODD. 


THE  SPARKLING  SHERIDAN.  30I 

"  Sad  with  the  news,  Thalia  mourned  ; 
The  Graces  joined  her  train  ; 
And  naught  but  sighs  for  sighs  return'd. 
Were  heard  at  Drury  I^ane. 

But  see— 'tis  false  !  in  Nature's  style 

She  comes,  by  Fancy  dress' d  ; 
Again  gives  Comedy  her  smile,  ' 

And  Fashion  all  her  taste." 

This  was  the  Abington  who  delighted  the  audience 
that  night,  critics  and  laymen  alike,  by  her  performance 
of  the  elegant  Lady  Teazle.  She  had  been  a  kitchen 
wench,  a  seller  of  flowers  (did  not  a  few  persons  with 
inconvenient  memories  recall  her  nickname  of  *  *  Nose- 
gay Fan  "*)  and  an  errand  girl  to  a  French  milliner, 
but  she  could  play  the  country  miss  turned  woman 
of  fashion  with  a  naturalness  and  sureness  of  touch 
that  bespoke  the  Duchess,  rather  than  the  cobbler's 
daughter. 

As  the  Lady  Teazle  proved  so  admirable,  likewise 
did  the  Sir  Peter  of  Thomas  King,  the  intimate  friend 
of  Garrick,  and  a  conservative  actor  whose  epigram- 
matic, dryly  amusing  style  must  have  seemed  just 
suited  to  the  part.  How  could  it  have  been  otherwise 
with  a  man  of  whom  Charles  I^amb  wrote  so  pictur- 
esquely :  ''  His  acting  left  a  taste  on  the  palate  sharp 
and  sweet  like  a  quince ;  with  an  old,  hard,  rough, 
withered  face,  like  a  john-apple,  puckered  up  into  a 
thousand  wrinkles  ;  with  shrewd  hints  and  tart  replies." 

*  Fanny  Barton  was  her  maiden  name.  Her  father  was  some- 
times a  soldier  in  the  Guards,  and  sometimes  a  cobbler. 


302  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLA  Y HO  USE, 

Another  of  the  dramatis  personcs  who  must  have 
added  strength  to  the  cast  was  William  Smith — 

*'  Smith  the  genteel,  the  airy  and  the  smart," 
as  Churchill  called  him.  To  play  Charles  Surface  one 
had  to  be  a  gentleman  as  well  as  a  comedian,  and 
Sheridan  was  peculiarly  fortunate  in  having  at  hand 
an  actor  whose  distinction  of  manner  and  good-breed- 
ing enabled  him  to  give  such  realism  to  the  character. 
Charles  represented  what  would  now  be  vulgarly  termed 
a  * '  dress-suit ' '  part,  and  those  of  us  who  have  seen 
some  talented  but  hopelessly  outre  comedian  trying  to 
look  comfortable  as  the  hero  of  a  stage  drawing-room 
can  understand  how  difficult  it  is  to  procure  the  neces- 
sary combination  in  this  respect.  Even  men  who  are 
gentlemen  by  birth  and  education  cannot  always  ap- 
pear graceful  and  at  ease  in  so-called  society  plays. 
But  '*  Gentleman  Smith,"  with  an  elegance  that  never 
deserted  him,  either  on  or  off  the  boards,  played  the 
careless  Surface  with  a  finish  and  air  of  fashionable 
ease  that  proved  a  delight  to  the  audiences  of  his  own 
generation,  while  it  set  the  model  for  the  players  of  a 
future  one. 

A  fine  group,  these  first  exponents  of  The  School  for 
Scandal.  There  was  Yates,  so  excellent  as  an  humor- 
ous old  man,  who  must  have  been  an  unctuous  Sir  Oli- 
ver ;  and  we  know  that  John  Palmer's  Joseph  Surface 
was  considered  unapproachable.  '  *  So  admirable  a 
hypocrite  has  never  yet  been  seen  :  his  manners,  his 
deportment,  his  address,  combined  to  render  him  the 


THE   SPARKLING  SHERIDAN.  303 

very  man  he  desired  to  paint.  His  performance  on  the 
stage  bore  a  very  strong  similarity  to  that  he  was  fam- 
ous for  in  private  life.  He  was  plausible,  of  pleasing 
address,  of  much  politeness  and  even  of  great  grace. 
He  was  fond  of  pleasure,  which  he  pursued  with  so 
much  avidity  as  to  be  generally  very  careless  of  his 
theatrical  duties."*  Then  what  a  life-like  Sir  Ben- 
jamin was  James  Dodd,  who  has  been  pronounced  the 
most  perfect  fopling  ever  seen  upon  the  stage.  '  *  He 
took  his  snuff,  or  applied  the  quintessence  of  roses  to 
his  nose  with  an  air  of  complacent  superiority,  such  as 
won  the  hearts  of  all  conversant  with  that  style  of  af- 
fectation." Such  was  the  man  who  was  spoken  of  as 
**  the  prince  of  pink  heels  and  the  Soul  of  empty  emi- 
nence. ' ' 

But  there  is  no  need  to  dwell  on  the  individual  vir- 
tues of  the  players  who  lent  such  eclai  to  the  initial  per- 
formance. It  was  a  triumphant  night  for  all  concerned, 
from  Sheridan  down  to  the  prompter, f  and  the  applause 
was  frequent  and  enthusiastic,  as  though  prophetic  of 
the  reception  this  glittering  work  would  meet  with  in 
after  years.  Frederick  Reynolds,  then  a  mere  lad, 
quaintly  relates  how  he  was  returning  home  from  Lin- 
coln's Inn  about  nine  o'clock  that  evening,  and  pass- 
ing through  the  Pit-passage,  from  Vinegar- Yard  to 
Brydges  Street,  he  heard  such  a  tremendous  noise  over 

*  Life  of  Sheridan. 

t  Hopkins,  the  father  of  the  original  Maria  (Miss  P.  Hop- 
kins). Miss  Hopkins  afterwards  became  the  wife  of  John  Philip 
Kemble. 


304  ECHOES  OF  THE  FLA  Y HO  USE, 

his  head  that,  ' '  fearing  the  theatre  was  proceeding  to 
fall  about  it,"  he  ran  for  his  life,  **  but  found  the  next 
morning,  that  the  noise  did  not  arise  from  the  falling 
of  the  house,  but  from  the  falling  of  the  screen,  in  the 
fourth  act,  so  violent  and  so  tumultuous  were  the 
applause  and  laughter." 

The  comedy,  as  we  know,  had  a  talkative  beginning, 
and  the  action,  of  which  there  is  not  over-much  at  best, 
was  late  in  developing,  so  that  one  of  the  spectators 
exclaimed  impatiently,  during  the  scene  at  Lady  Sneer- 
welVs  in  the  second  act,  *'  I  wish  these  people  would 
have  done  talking,  and  let  the  play  begin."  As  the 
interest  in  the  slender  story  increased,  and  it  was  seen 
how  witty  and  delightful  became  this  very  * '  talking, ' ' 
the  house  warmed  to  the  performance  and  ended  by 
putting  the  seal  of  its  most  vociferous  approval  upon 
the  new  production.  The  shekels  began  pouring  into 
Drury  lyane  box-ofl5ce,  and  even  when  it  ceased  to  ex- 
ert the  charm  of  novelty  The  School  for  Scandal  could 
be  revived  at  this  house  with  the  most  profitable  re- 
sults. Garrick  had  taken  the  greatest  interest  in  the 
rehearsals,  for  he  was  proud  of  his  managerial  succes- 
sor, and  when  the  popularity  of  the  piece  was  assured 
he  sent  his  ' '  best  wishes  and  compliments  to  Mr.  Sheri- 
dan ' '  and  added  :  *  *  A  gentleman  who  is  as  mad  as 
myself  about  the  School  remark' d  that  the  characters 
upon  the  stage  at  the  falling  of  the  screen  stand  too 
long  before  they  speak — I  thought  so  too  the  first  night 
— he  said  it  was  the  same  on  the  second,  and  was  re- 


THE  SPARKLING  SHERIDAN.  305 

mark'd  by  others  ; — tho'  they  should  be  astonish' d,  and 
a  Httle  petrified,  yet  it  may  be  carried  to  too  great  a 
length.  All  praise  at  I^ord  Lucan's  last  night."  If  a 
keen  critic  such  as  Garrick  could  acknowledge  him- 
self mad  about  the  comedy,  Sheridan  might  well  rest 
satisfied. 

There  were  several  of  the  author's  enemies  who  re- 
fused to  rest  satisfied,  however,  and  they  insisted  that 
he  had  not  written  The  School  for  Scandal  at  all.  The 
discussion  even  assumed  the  dignity  of  a  controversy 
of  the  Shakespeare-Bacon -Donnelly  type,  and  there 
were  several  wiseacres  who  mysteriously  hinted  that 
the  daughter  of  a  Thames  Street  merchant  was  respon- 
sible for  the  play.  This  young  lady,  it  appears,  put 
the  manuscript  into  Sheridan's  hands  at  the  beginning 
of  the  season,  and  then  marched  off  to  the  Bristol  hot- 
wells,  where  she  conveniently  died  in  time  to  leave 
Richard  Brinsley  in  full  possession  of  the  field — and 
the  comedy.  In  later  years,  w^hen  John  Watkins, 
Doctor  of  lyaws,  et  cetera^  et  cetera:,  came  to  write  his 
memoirs  of  Sheridan,  he  gave  particular  credence  to 
this  rumor,  and  lamented  that  the  doubt  thus  raised 
had  never  been  cleared  up,  "because  an  unfavorable 
impression  has  been  made,  which  will  become  deeper 
and  more  extensive  in  proportion  to  the  lapse  of  years, 
and  the  efforts  that  may  be  made  for  its  removal." 
You  were  a  poor  prophet.  Dr.  Watkins.  The  public 
of  to-day  knows  as  little  of  the  story  as  it  does — 
saving  your  memory — of  John  Watkins,  I^Iy.D. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

EXKUNT  OMNKS. 

THE  eighteenth  century,  so  rich  in  its  theatrical 
life  and  tradition,  now  sped  on  the  homeward 
stretch,  and  the  time  was  fast  approaching  when  the 
players  who  had  drawn  their  inspiration  from  the 
marvellous  Garrick  would  make  their  final  exits.  A 
new  dramatic  era,  glorious  in  the  possession  of  the 
tragic  Siddons  and  the  mighty  Kean,  waited  on  the 
threshold  of  the  theatre  ;  when  its  knock  was  heard  the 
great  Roscius  had  departed,*  but  some  of  his  contem- 
poraries yet  remained  to  bring  back  pleasant  memories 
of  the  past,  and  unconsciously  prepare  the  way  for  the 
giants  of  a  different  school  and  age.  Before  closing 
these  ' '  Echoes ' '  of  the  old-time  theatre,  we  might 
therefore  linger  for  a  moment  among  the  coterie  of 
entertainers  who  so  gracefully  ushered  out  the  ancient 
regime — one  of  the  most  imposing  epochs  that  the 
historian  of  the  stage  will  ever  chronicle. 

There  was  the  statuesque,  the  Medea-like  Mistress 
Yates,    a    beautiful    incarnation    of   tragedy,    whose 

*  It  must  not  be  forgotten,  however,  that  Siddons  acted  in 
Garrick 's  company  and  made  a  failure  as  Portia.  Her  genius 
and  her  fame  never  developed  until  after  the  great  actor's 
death. 

306 


EXEUNT  OMNES.  307 

haughty,  disdainful  looks  and  noble  voice  could 
command  the  attention  of  even  the  dullest  spectator. 
She  was  not  what  in  these  days  one  calls  a  sympa- 
thetic actress ;  on  the  contrary,  she  seemed  all  fire 
and  majestic  dignity,  without  that  emotion  which 
one  associates  with  less  strong-minded  members  of 
her  sex,  and  Churchill  wrote  of  her  that 

".     .     .    through  the  region  of  that  beauteous  face, 
We  no  variety  of  passions  trace. 
Dead  to  the  soft  emotions  of  the  heart, 
No  kindred  softness  can  those  eyes  impart. 
The  brow  still  fix'd  in  sorrow's  sullen  frame, 
Void  of  distinction,  marks  all  parts  the  same." 

That  she  could,  on  occasion,  display  a  fair  amount 
of  esprit  and  even  humor,  in  spite  of  all  her  grandeur 
and  classic  severity,  is  shown  by  what  William  Godwin, 
the  husband  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft,  wrote  of  her 
Violante  in  The  Wonder.  *  *  What  I  recollect  best  of 
Mrs.  Yates,"  he  says,  "  is  the  scene  in  which  Garrick, 
having  offended  her  by  a  jealousy,  not  altogether  with- 
out an  apparent  cause,  the  lady,  conscious  of  her  entire 
innocence,  at  length  expresses  a  serious  resentment. 
Felix  had  till  then  indulged  his  angry  feelings  ;  but 
finding  at  last  that  he  had  gone  too  far,  applies  himself 
with  all  a  lover's  art  to  soothe  her.  She  turns  her  back 
to  him,  and  draws  away  her  chair;  he  follows  her, 
and  draws  his  chair  nearer  ;  she  draws  away  further  ; 
at  length  by  his  winning,  entreating,  and  cajoling,  she 
is  gradually  induced  to  melt,  and  finally  makes  it  up 
with  him.     Her  condescension  in  every  stage,  from  its 


308  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

commencement  to  its  conclusion,  was  admirable.  Her 
dignity  was  great  and  lofty,  and  the  effect  highly  en- 
hanced by  her  beauty  ;  and  when  by  degrees  she  laid 
aside  her  frown — when  her  lips  began  to  relax  toward 
a  smile,  while  one  cloud  vanished  after  another,  the 
spectator  thought  he  had  never  seen  anything  so  lovely 
and  irresistible,  and  the  effect  was  greatly  owing  to 
her  queen-like  majesty.  The  conclusion,  in  a  graceful 
and  wayward  beauty,  would  have  been  comparatively 
nothing  ;  with  Mrs.  Yates's  figure  and  demeanor  it  laid 
the  whole  audience,  as  well  as  the  lover,  at  her  feet." 

One  of  this  imposing  woman's  great  parts  was  Lady 
Macbeth,  in  which  it  was  even  considered  that  she 
equalled  the  famous  Mrs.  Pritchard.*  The  Macbeth 
who  assisted  her  in  a  notable  production  of  the  tragedy 
was  John  Henderson,  of  whom  Mrs.  Siddons  has  left  it 
on  record  that  he  was  ' '  the  soul  of  feeling  and  intelli- 
gence. ' ' 

*  Mrs.  Pritchard  (born  17 ii,  died  1768)  lacked  grace,  breeding, 
and  gentility  of  manner,  but  she  acted  low  comedy  characters, 
such  as  women  of  the  shrewish,  common  type,  with  unbounded 
humor,  while  she  won  great  favor  in  certain  tragic  parts,  not- 
withstanding her  exuberance  of  expression,  and  her  disposition, 
as  Garrick  pointed  out,  to  "  blubber  her  sorrows."  This  was 
the  actress  of  whom  Dr.  Johnson  said  to  Mrs.  Siddons  that 
*'  in  common  life  she  was  a  vulgar  idiot."  The  same  critic  ob- 
served once  that  *'her  playing  was  quite  mechanical.  It  is 
wonderful  how  little  mind  she  had.  Sir,  she  had  never  read 
the  tragedy  oi  Macbeth  through.  She  no  more  thought  of  the 
play  out  of  which  her  part  was  taken,  than  a  shoemaker  thinks 
of  the  skin  out  of  which  the  piece  of  leather  of  which  he  is 
making  a  pair  of  shoes  is  cut." 


EXEUNT  OMNES.  309 

The  name  of  Henderson  has  nothing  magical  or 
inspiring  about  it  now,  but  a  century  ago  it  called  up 
sunny  visions  of  one  of  the  most  unctuous  of  Falstaffs, 
who  could  also,  on  occasion,  metamorphose  himself  into 
the  far  different  character  of  the  subj  ective  Hamlet.  His 
eye  might  lack  expression,  his  voice  be  weak,  and  his 
figure  wanting  in  grace  and  symmetry,  but  he  was  a 
fine  actor,  for  all  that.  He  came  of  good  stock,  was  a 
gentleman  by  ancestry  and  breeding,  and  as  a  youth 
developed  a  very  ardent  ambition  for  the  stage.  In 
1768  he  solicited  the  interest  of  George  Garrick,  who 
pronounced  against  the  histrionic  prospects  of  the  aspi- 
rant, owing  to  the  poverty  of  his  vocal  equipment. 
But  the  young  man  is  not  to  be  daunted  ;  he  procures 
an  engagement  at  Bath,  where  he  makes  a  success, 
and  this  is  but  the  prelude  to  an  honored  career  on  the 
metropolitan  stage.  David  Garrick,  who  seems  to  have 
had  for  him  a  mixture  of  jealousy  and  contempt,  writes 
in  1775  : 

'*I  have  seen  the  great  Henderson,  who  has  some- 
thing and  is  nothing — he  might  be  made  to  figure 
among  the  puppets  of  these  times.  His  Don  John  is  a 
comic  Cato,  and  his  Hamlet  a  mixture  of  tragedy,  com- 
edy, pastoral,  farce,  and  nonsense.  However,  though 
my  wife  is  outrageous,  I  am  in  the  secret ;  and  see 
sparks  of  fire  which  might  be  blown  to  warm  even  a 
lyondon  audience  at  Christmas — he  is  a  dramatic  phe- 
nomenon and  his  friends,  but  more  particularly  Cum- 
berland, has  [have]  ruined  him  ;  he  has  a  manner  of 


3IO  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

pawing  when  he  would  be  emphatic,  that  is  ridiculous, 
and  must  be  changed,  or  he  would  not  be  suffered  at 
the  Bedford  Coffee-house." 

But  as  the  younger  Colman  well  said,  although 
Henderson  was  many  degrees  below  the  standard  of 
Garrick's  theatrical  genius,  he  was  ''many  degrees 
above  the  mark  of  his  critical  detraction."  Indeed, 
with  all  his  physical  limitations  he  made  a  fine  impres- 
sion as  Benedick^  in  which  he  seems  to  have  imitated 
the  jealous  David  so  well  as  to  almost  eclipse  the  latter 
in  that  character  — a  fairly  good  showing  for  an  actor 
who  *'  had  something  and  was  nothing,"  especially  if 
we  add  this  to  the  list  of  his  other  successes,  headed 
by  Falstaff. 

In  referring  in  his  Random  Records  to  the  diplomatic 
way  in  which  the  elder  Colman*  brought  Henderson 
before  the  public,  the  manager's  son  writes  :  "  There 
is  no  denying  that  he  had  contracted  some  bad  habits 
in  his  deportment,  such  as  an  odd  mode  of  receding 
from  parties  on  the  stage,  with  the  palms  of  his  hands 
turned  outwards,  and  thus  backing  from  one  of  the 
dramatis  persome  wh&n  he  was  expressing  happiness  at 
meeting.  With  these  adventitious  faults,  he  had  to 
contend  against  physical  drawbacks  ;  his  eye  wanted 
expression  and  his  figure  was  not  well  put  together. 
My  father  was  ambitious  to  start  him  in  characters 
whose  dress  might  either  help  or  completely  hide  per- 

*  Colman  bought  the  Hay  market  theatre  from  Foote  a  short 
time  before  the  latter's  death,  which  occmred  iu  October,  1777. 


EXEUNT  OMNES.  3II 

sonal  deficiencies  ;  accordingly  it  was  arranged  that 
the  two  first  personations  should  be  Shylock  and  Hamlet^ 
in  which  the  Jew's  gaberdine  and  the  Prince  of  Den- 
mark's '  inky  cloak  '  and  '  suit  of  solemn  black,'  were 
of  great  service.  I  know  not  whether  Falstaff  imme- 
diately followed  these,  but  whenever  he  did  come,  Sir 
John' s  proportions  were  not  expected  to  present  a  model 
for  the  students  of  the  Royal  Academy.  By  this  manage- 
ment the  actor's  talents  soon  made  sufiicient  way  to 
battle  such  ill  natured  remarks  as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected upon  symmetry  ;  and  the  audience  was  prepared 
to  admit,  when  he  came  to  the  lovers  and  heroes,  that 
'  Before  such  merit  all  objections  fly.'" 
A  player  of  far  different  calibre  was  Henry  Mossop,* 
vehement,  vain,  and  sonorous  of  voice,  who  could 

"In  monosyllables  his  thunders  roll," 
and  who,  in  spite  of  his  awkwardness  and  hardness  of 
expression,  was  looked  upon  as  one  of  the  best  actors 
of  his  time.  We  read  of  his  quarrelsome  disposition, 
his  checquered  career,  his  envy  of  Garrick,  and  cannot 
but  derive  amusement  from  his  altercation  with  Thomas 
Sheridan.  It  was  in  the  youthful  days  of  Mossop,  just 
after  he  had  won  a  remarkable  initial  triumph  in  Sheri- 
dan's company  at  the  Smock  Alley  Theatre,  in  Dub- 
lin. He  had  appeared  as  Richard  III.,  attired  in  a 
rather  dandified  and  inappropriate  costume,  and  hearing 
that  the  manager  had  casually  commented  on  the  cir- 

*  Mossop  was  the  son  of  an  Irish  clergyman  of  the  Established 
Church,  and  first  saw  the  light  in  1729.     He  died  in  1773. 


312  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

cumstance,  he  sought  him  out  and  said  in  his  declama- 
tory, deliberate  fashion  :  "  Mr.  She-ri-dan,  I  hear  you 
said  I  dressed  Richard  like  a  cox-comb  :  that  is  an  af- 
front :  you  wear  a  sword,  pull  it  out  of  the  scab-bard  ! 
I  '11  draw  mine  and  thrust  it  into  your  bo-dy  !  " 

There  was  no  pulling  of  scab-bards,  however,  for 
Sheridan  had  the  good  sense  to  take  the  challenge  for 
what  it  was  worth.  Mossop  had  a  weakness  for  indulg- 
ing in  heroics  off  the  stage  as  well  as  on,  and  he  was 
not  always  as  impressive  in  real  life  as  he  intended  to 
be.  Certainly  he  could  exert  no  terrors  for  the  Dublin 
cobbler  who  refused  to  leave  the  actor's  boots  at  home 
until  the  bill  for  their  mending  was  settled.  "Tell 
me,"  thundered  the  tragedian,  putting  on  his  most 
crushingly  tragic  air,  * '  are  you  the  noted  cobbler  I  oft 
have  heard  of?"  ''Yes,"  replied  the  man,  "and  I 
think  you  are  the  diverting  vagabond  I  have  often 
seen ! ' ' 

It  was  a  comparatively  short  life,  but  not  always  a 
merry  one,  this  meteoric  existence  of  Mossop.  There 
were  moments  of  delirious  success,  both  in  London  and 
Dublin,  but  the  cares  and  responsibilities  of  manage- 
ment, when  he  set  out  for  himself  in  the  Irish  capital, 
crushed  him  in  the  end.  He  died  in  abject  poverty, 
and  all  the  money  found  in  his  possession  was  four- 
pence.  It  is  better  to  leave  him  under  more  cheerful 
circumstances,  and  we  may  do  so  by  a  quotation  or  two 
from  those  chatty  Recollections  of  John  O'  Keefe.  *  *  I  was 
one  night  witness  to  an  untoward  circumstance  at  Smock 


EXEUNT  OMNES.  313 

Alley  Theatre,"  he  writes.  ''Congreve's  Mourning 
Bride  was  the  tragedy  ;  Mossop,  Osmin,  and  a  subor- 
dinate actor  Selim.  Selim  being  stabbed  by  Osmin 
should  have  remained  dead  on  the  stage,  but  seized 
with  a  fit  of  coughing  he  unluckily  put  up  his  hand 
and  loosened  his  stock,  which  set  the  audience  in  a  burst 
of  laughter.  The  scene  over,  the  enraged  manager  and 
actor  railed  at  his  underling  for  daring  to  appear  alive 
when  he  was  dead,  who,  in  excuse,  said  he  must  have 
choked  had  he  not  done  as  he  did  :  Mossop  replied, 
'  Sir,  you  should  choke  a  thousand  times  rather  than 
spoil  my  scene.' 

"  At  a  period  when  the  payments  were  not  very 
ready  ' '  (O'  Keefe  continues)  ' '  at  the  Smock  Alley  treas- 
ury, one  night,  Mossop,  in  Lear,  was  supported  in  the 
arms  of  an  actor  who  played  Kent,  and  who  whispered  to 
him,  '  If  you  don't  give  me  your  honor,  sir,  that  you  '11 
pay  me  my  arrears  this  night,  before  I  go  home,  I  '11  let 
you  drop  about  the  boards.'  Mossop  alarmed,  said, 
'  Don't  talk  to  me  now.'  '  I  will,'  said  Kent,  '  I  will ; 
I'll  let  you  drop.'  Mossop  was  obliged  to  give  the 
promise,  and  the  actor  thus  got  his  money,  though  a 
few  of  the  others  went  home  without  theirs.  Such  the 
efifect  of  a  well-timed  hint,  though  desperate." 

A  more  sedate  figure  on  our  eighteenth  century  can- 
vas was  Tate  Wilkinson,  a  phenomenal  mimic,  a  very 
poor  actor,  and  an  energetic  provincial  manager.  Of 
his  imitative  powers,  there  are  a  number  of  anecdotes, 
one  of  which  relates  how  Tate  passed  himself  ofi"  for 


314  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

Foote  before  a  London  audience,  which  was  so  thor- 
oughly deceived  as  to  indulge  in  cries  of  '*  Bravo, 
Foote ! "  and  such  comments  as  "What  fine  spirits 
Sam  's  in  to-night. ' '  All  the  while  the  original  who  was 
being  so  wonderfully  copied  sat  concealed  in  his  private 
box,  hugely  enjoying  the  hoax.  Perhaps  the  most  in- 
teresting of  all  these  stories  is  the  familiar  one  concern- 
ing the  seductive  Woffington,  which  John  Bernard  can 
give  us. 

On  his  first  visit  to  Dublin  with  Foote,  they  were  en- 
gaged by  Barry  and  Mossop  to  give  their  entertain- 
ments on  the  alternate  nights  with  Peg  Woffington 's 
performances.  Foote  considered  that  it  would  be  an 
attractive  feature  in  the  bill,  if  he  announced  an  imi- 
tation of  the  above  lady  by  Wilkinson  ;  but  the  design 
coming  to  her  ears,  she  sent  Sam  an  abusive  note  ac- 
quainting him  that  if  he  attempted  to  take  her  off  she 
had  some  fi-iends  in  Dublin  who  would  oblige  him  to 
take  himself  off.  Foote  showed  this  epistle  to  his  com- 
panion, who,  nothing  daunted,  proposed  that  instead 
of  an  * '  imitation  ' '  they  would  give  a  scene  from  Alex- 
ander the  Great  in  character,  Foote  mimicing  Barry  in 
the  hero,  and  Wilkinson,  Mrs.  W.  as  Roxana.  Prepa- 
rations were  accordingly  made,  and  their  bills  pub- 
lished :  what  gave  greater  zest  to  the  announcement 
was,  that  Alexander  the  Great  had  been  played  the 
night  before.  Among  the  flood  of  spectators  came  Peg 
in  person,  and  seated  herself  in  the  stage  box,  not  only 
to  enlist  the  audience  in  her  favor,  and  silence  Foote 


EXEUNT  OMNES,  315 

by  her  appearance  (which  was  truly  beautiful),  but  if 
anything  occurred  to  give  the  wink  to  a  party  of  young 
Irish  in  the  pit,  who  would  rise  up  to  execute  immedi- 
ate vengeance  on  the  mimics.  Sam  and  Tate  were  thus 
treading  on  the  surface  of  a  secret  mine. 

When  Foote  appeared,  as  he  could  present  no  resem- 
blance to  Barry  but  in  manner  and  accent,  the  surprise 
was  necessarily  transferred  to  the  entrance  of  his  com- 
panion, a  tall  and  dignified  female,  something  like  the 
original  in  face,  but  so  like  in  figure  and  deportment 
that  the  spectators  glanced  their  eyes  from  box  to  stage 
and  stage  to  box,  to  convince  themselves  of  Mrs.  W.'s 
identity.  Peg  herself  was  not  the  least  astonished,  and 
her  myrmidons  below  were  uncertain  how  to  act. 

Foote  commenced  the  scene  sufficiently  like  Barry  to 
have  procured  applause,  had  not  Tate  thrown  himself 
into  one  of  Peg's  favorite  attitudes  meanwhile,  and  di- 
verted the  attention.  Eye  and  ear  were  now  directed 
to  the  latter,  and  the  first  tone  of  his  voice  drew  a  thun- 
dering response  from  the  lips  of  his  auditors.  As  he 
proceeded  the  effect  increased ;  the  house  was  electri- 
fied ;  his  enemies  were  overpowered,  and  Peg  herself 
set  the  seal  of  his  talents  by  beating  her  fan  to  pieces 
on  the  beading  of  the  boxes.* 

Probably  no  one  who  ever  had  to  do  with  the  theat- 
rical profession  had  more  personal  peculiarities  than 
this  same  Tate  Wilkinson.  A  sweeping  assertion,  con- 
sidering the  curious  characteristics  of  many  a  player 
*  Retrospections  of  the  Stage. 


3l6  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE, 

and  manager,  past  or  present,  but  it  is  at  least  certain 
that  the  intimate  friends  of  the  mimic  bore  eloquent 
testimony  to  his  remarkable  habits  and  individuality. 
He  had  a  sweet  way,  for  instance,  of  going  into  the 
gallery  of  his  theatre  and  there  hissing  with  the  ut- 
most vehemence  any  player  who  had  refused  to  take 
his  advice  on  some  point  of  acting,  and  it  is  said  that 
on  one  unexpected  occasion  he  made  his  sibilant  objec- 
tions so  unbearable  to  the  occupants  of  the  upper  tier 
that  he  was  ignominiously  hustled  out  of  his  own 
house  into  the  street. 

The  most  amusing  of  all  his  eccentricities  was  a 
fondness  for  rambling  on  in  his  conversation  and  going 
from  one  topic  to  another  with  an  irrelevancy  that 
caused  the  greatest  wonderment  from  those  who  were 
not  familiar  with  this  little  weakness.  ' '  Sir, ' '  he  once 
wandered  on  aimlessly  to  Michael  Kelly,  "  Barry,  sir, 
was  as  much  superior  to  Garrick  in  Romeo  as  York 
Minster  is  to  a  Methodist  chapel — not  but  I  think  that 
if  lobster  sauce  is  not  well  made,  a  turbot  isn't  eatable, 
let  it  be  ever  so  firm.  Then  there  's  that  Miss  Rey- 
nolds :  why  she,  sir,  fancies  herself  a  singer,  but  she 
is  quite  a  squalini,  sir  !  A  nuisance,  sir  !  going  about 
my  house  the  whole  of  the  day  roaring  out  The  Soldier 
tired  of  War' s  Alarms,  ah!  she  has  tired  me  and 
alarmed  the  whole  neighborhood ;  not  but  when  rab- 
bits are  young  and  tender  they  are  very  nice  eating. 
There  was  Mrs.  Barry,  for  example  ;  Mrs.  Barry  was 
very  fine  and  very  majestic  in  Zenobia  ;  Barry  in  the 


FOOTE  AS       FONDLEWIFE.' 


SCENE  FROM  CONGREVE'8  COMEDY,        THE  OLD  BACHELOR. 
/  BY  J.   J.    BARRALET. 


FROM  A  DRAWING 


EXEUNT  OMNES,  317 

same  play  was  very  good  ;  not  but  that  the  wild  rab- 
bits are  better  than  tame  ones.  Though  Mrs.  Barry 
was  so  great  in  her  day,  yet  Mrs.  Siddons — stewed  and 
smothered  with  onions  either  of  them  are  delicious. 
Mrs.  Pope  was  admirable  in  Queen  Elizabeth — a  man  I 
had  here  made  a  very  good  Oroonoko ;  not  but  I  would 
always  advise  you  to  have  a  call's  head  dressed  with 
the  skin  on,  but  you  must  always  bespeak  it  of  the 
butcher  yourself;  though  the  late  bespeak  of  I^ord 
Scarborough  did  nothing  for  me,  nothing  at  all — the 
house  was  one  of  the  worst  of  the  whole  season  ;  with 
bacon  and  green — not  twenty  pounds  altogether,  with 
parsley  and  butter." 

•To  speak  of  the  idiosyncracies  of  actors  suggests 
an  endless  string  of  anecdotes,  not  the  least  amusing 
of  which  has  for  its  hero  the  solemn  and  sagacious 
William  Bensley,  an  ideal  Malvolio  and  an  impressive 
Ghost  in  Hamlet.  Bensley  had  been  in  the  army  and 
we  are  told  *  that  when  he  thought  proper  to  unbend 
from  his  dignified  stateliness  he  was  prone  to  the 
relation  of  his  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field. 
Whenever  the  name  of  any  foreign  station  occurred  in 
conversation  Bensley  would  exclaim,  ' '  I  was  there  in 

such  a  year,  and  served  under  (such  a  General)  as 

lieutenant,"  etc.  Charles  Bannister  (against  whose 
punning  propensities  Bensley  waged  war)  had  noted 
down  all  these  assertions  for  many  months,  and  on  one 
particular  evening,  after  a  coolness  for  some  days  be- 
*  Records  of  a  Stage  Veteran, 


3l8  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

tween  the  tragedian  and  himself,  proposed  his  health 
in  the  following  words:  "Gentlemen,  I  rise  to  drink 
the  health  of  one  who  has  sought  the  bubble  reputation 
even  in  the  cannon's  mouth  ;  who,  quitting  the  field 
of  fame,  bespoke  her  trumpet  to. bray  forth  his  eulogies 
in  the  path  of  the  drama.  The  scenic  power  of  my 
friend,  Mr.  Bensley,  you  well  know,  you  all  appreciate 
[loud  plaudits,  and  Bensley,  overcome  by  gratitude, 
fervently  squeezing  Bannister's  hand]  but,  Gentlemen, 
it  is  as  a  defender  of  his  country  that  I  rise  to  drink 
his  health  ;  he  has  fought,  he  has  bled  for  Old  England 
[tremendous  applause,  and  Bensley  bowing  his  ac- 
knowledgments] .     He  was  captain  in  the regiment 

at  Calcutta in .  He  was  at in .  He  led 

the  forlorn  hope  at in  17 [Here  Bannister  enu- 
merated all  the  places  Bensley  had  ever  mentioned  in 
his  moments  of  exhilaration,  to  the  tragedian's  dismay.] 
Gentlemen,"  concluded  Charles,  "my  friend's  age  is 
but  forty-six,  he  has  been  twenty  years  on  the  stage — 
I  find,  therefore,  by  accurate  calculation  that  he  must 
have  carried  a  pair  of  colors  when  eighteen  months  old 
— an  instance  of  precocity,  power,  and  courage  unex- 
ampled in  the  history  of  the  world. ' '  * 

Poor  Bensley  might  prose  on  about  his  martial  ex- 
perience and  act  with  force  as  well,  and  the  witty  Ban- 

*  Ralph  Wewitzer  tells  of  a  country  gentleman,  who  having 
fallen  asleep  while  Bensley  was  repeating  a  long  speech  in 
"his  usual  croaking  voice,"  suddenly  started  up  and  cried  out : 
"  Hullo !  reach  me  my  blunderbuss  this  instant ;  I  thought  I 
had  shot  that  croaking  devil  yesterday." 


EXEUNT  OMNES.  319 

nister  could  conjure  large  audiences  by  the  spell  of  his 
sweet  voice  and  amusing  burlesque  of  Italian  singers, 
but  neither  of  them  held  the  same  warm  place  in  the 
public  heart  as  did  the  estimable  Mrs.  Pope.  What  a 
host  of  associations  cluster  about  her  name.  The  friend 
and  colleague  of  Garrick,  in  whose  company  she  figured 
so  conspicuously,  and  a  player  at  Drury  I^ane,  for 
many  years,  she  represented  all  that  was  best  in  the 
school  with  which  she  was  so  pleasurably  identified, 
and  when  she  died  in  1797,  another  link  was  lost 
between  two  great  theatrical  epochs. 

Her  maiden  name  was  Younge,  and  she  came  of  a 
very  respectable  but  impecunious  family.  Just  as  she 
was  preparing  to  earn  her  own  liv^'ng,  as  one  historian 
curiously  informs  us,*  "a  dignified  Professor  of  the 
lyong  Robe  paid  his  devoirs  to  her.  This  gentleman 
being  early  bred  an  apothecary,  and  afterwards  pursu- 
ing the  I^aw  (with  whose  quibbles  he  soon  became 
very  conversant)  it  is  not  to  be  expected  he  should  be 
a  connoisseur  in  the  mysteries  of  Cupid."  But  it 
seems  that  *  *  short  was  the  date  ' '  of  this  paradoxical 
love-affair  '*  where  the  hearts  did  not  unite."  In  brief, 
*'the  natural  moroseness  of  his  temper  breaking  out, 
removed  the  artificial  affection  she  was  induced  to 
shew  him  ;  and  despising  a  settlement  so  incompatible 
with  happiness,  she  really  dissolved  a  connection  in 
which  her  hand,  not  her  heart,  consented." 

Miss  Younge,  now  fancy  free,  determined  "to  be 
*  The  Secret  History  of  the  Green  Room. 


320  ECHOES  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

the  carver  of  her  own  happiness, ' '  and  having  a  strong 
liking  for  the  works  of  the  English  dramatists  concluded 
that  she  might  do  worse  than  play  in  some  of  them  her- 
self. She  procured  a  note  of  introduction  to  Garrick, 
who  took  an  interest  in  her  ambitions,  and  was  soon  a 
prominent  member  of  his'company .  Her  salary  was  next 
raised  to  three  pounds,  and  at  the  end  of  the  season 
she  was  disporting  herself  in  comparative  luxury  to  the 
tune  of  five  pounds  a  week.  She  was  an  attractive 
woman,  with  superb  neck  and  shoulders,  and  a  face 
that  had  great  beauty  of  expression,  although  her  fea- 
tures were  not  actually  handsome,  nor  did  she  lose  any- 
thing by  being  frequently  compared  to  the  famous  I^ady 
Sarah  Lennox.  Lady  Sarah  was  probably  the  only 
woman  that  honest,  phlegmatic  George  III.  ever  pas- 
sionately loved ;  he  would  have  married  her  had  he 
not  been  unfortunate  enough  to  be  a  King,  and  he  was 
himself  one  of  the  first  to  notice  the  strong  resemblance 
between  the  actress  and  his  one-time  sweetheart. 
There  is,  indeed,  a  pathetic  little  story  as  to  how,  many 
years  later,  when  the  charms  of  both  women  were 
faded.  His  Majesty  attended  a  performance  at  Drury 
Lane  and  seeing  Mrs.  Pope  on  the  stage,  (in  middle 
life  she  married  Pope,  the  actor,  who  was  young  enough 
to  be  her  son,)  he  startled  the  Queen  by  muttering  in  a 
melancholy,  preoccupied  manner,  *'She  is  like  Lady 
Sarah  still." 

Miss  Younge  was  unusually  valuable  in   that  she 
could  play  both  tragedy  and  comedy,  going  from  Lady 


kkeu^t  omues.  3^1 

Macbeth  and  Juliet  to  Rosalind^  and  then  descending 
below-stairs  to  the  atmosphere  of  dancing  chamber- 
maids, with  ease  and  success.  But  she  shone  more 
brightly  in  comedy  than  in  the  serious  roles  ;  she  had  a 
dry  humor  that  proved  irresistible,  and  as  Hazlitt  said, 
was  "  the  very  picture  of  a  duenna,  a  maiden  lady,  or 
antiquated  dowager— the  latter  spring  of  beauty,  the 
second  childhood  of  vanity  ;  more  quiet,  fantastic  and 
old-fashioned,  more  pert,  frothy  and  light-headed  than 
anything  can  be  imagined." 

She  owed  not  a  little  of  her  effectiveness  to  the  train- 
ing of  Garrick,  whose  temper  she  could  disturb  just  as 
well  as  did  several  more  of  his  feminine  supporters. 
There  is  a  rather  foolish  legend  that  the  squabbles  of 
the  actresses  hastened  his  retirement  from  the  stage, 
and  that  a  certain  undignified  contest  over  a  petticoat, 
of  which  Miss  Younge  and  Mrs.  Yates  were  the  hero- 
ines, gave  the  coup  de  grace  to  his  determination  to 
quit  the  boards  forever.  Garrick  was  too  experienced 
a  manager  to  be  driven  off  by  these  tempests  in  a  tea- 
pot, although  some  wiseacres  would  have  it  so,  never- 
theless, and  one  of  them  wrote  the  following  epigram 
entitled  The  Manager' s  Distress. 


*  I  have  no  nerves,'  says  Younge,  *  I  cannot  act.'  " 

*  I  've  lost  my  limbs,'  cried  Abington  ;  *  't  is  fact.' 
Yates  screams,  '  I  've  lost  my  voice,  my  throat's  so  sore.' 
Garrick  declares  he  '11  play  the  fool  no  more. 
Without  nerves,  limbs,  and  voice,  no  show,  that 's  certain 
Here  prompter,  ring  the  bell,  and  drop  the  curtain." 


322  ECHOES  OF   THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

lyCt  US  drop  the  curtain  on  Younge  without  a  thought 
for  petty  bickerings,  heart-burnings,  or  prosaic  petti- 
coats. What  prettier  scene  on  which  to  ring  it  down 
than  that  June  night  of  1776  when  Garrick  plays  Lear 
for  the  last  time.  He  has  acted  the  old  Ki7ig  with 
even  more  than  the  customary  pathos,  as  though  the 
part  harmonized  with  his  sadness  of  mood,  and  when 
the  performance  is  over  he  solemnly  leads  Coj'delia 
(Miss  Younge)  to  the  greenroom.  The  veteran  knows 
that  he  has  but  one  more  appearance  to  make  before 
bidding  farewell  to  the  theatre  forever,  and  he  says  to 
his  companion,  with  a  sigh:  "Oh,  Bess!  this  is  the 
last  time  of  my  being  your  father  ;  you  must  now  look 
out  for  some  one  else  to  adopt  you."  Cordelia  falls  on 
her  knees  with  theatrical,  yet  real  feeling,  and  falters, 
"Then,  sir,  pray  give  me  a  father's  blessing."  And 
as  the  mournful  Roscius  gently  raises  her,  while  the  rest 
of  the  company  look  on  silently  at  this  never-to-be-for- 
gotten epilogue,  he  cries,  trembling  and  affectionately, 
•'  God  bless  you God  bless  you  all  !  " and  hur- 
ries from  the  room. 

It  is  so  characteristic,  so  like  the  emotional  children 
of  the  stage,  and  withal  so  sincere  ;  a  charming  picture 
into  which,  through  all  the  tears,  comes  a  glimpse  of 
golden  sunshine.  A  happy  moment,  is  it  not,  for  the 
lowering  of  the  green  baize  on  the  many  scenes  de- 
picted in  these  Echoes  of  The  Playhouse  ?  We  can  put  out 
the  lights,  shut  up  the  house,  and  go  home,  not  in  sad- 
ness, but  hopefully,  cheerfully.     Betterton,  Bracegirdle, 


j 

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^                           "                           '" ' "    '■"■'■'■"■    .                  '»«        1 

MISS  YOUNQE. 
AS  "  ZARA  "IN  "  THE  MOURNING  BRIDE."     FROM  A  DRAWING  BY  ROBERTS  ,'   ENGRAVED  BY  READING. 


EXEUNT  OMNES.  323 

Oldfield,  Garrick,  Woffington  and  the  rest — they  have 

all  gone,  but  the  Muse  whom  they  ennobled  lives  on, 

richer  in  memories  of  the  past  and  strong  in  promise 

for  the  future.     Like  some  resplendant  Cleopatra, 

**  Age  cannot  witlier  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety." 


THE   END. 


INDEX. 


Abington,  Mrs.,  300,  301,  321 
Addison,  Joseph,  49,  82,  83,  85, 
86,  93,  94,  95,  102,  103,  126, 
153,  154,   155,   156,   162,  163, 
164,  165,  168,  169,  170 
Aickin,  actor,  300 
Ambrose,  Miss,  218 
Aune,  of  Denmark,  17 
Anne,  Princess  and  Queen,  48, 

68,  87,  88,  133 
Argyle,  Duke  of,  206 
Arne,  Thomas,  207,  208,  209, 

236,  278 
Ashbury,  Joseph,  145,  146,  147 
Aston,  Anthony,  57,  59,  68,  69 


B 


Baddeley,  R.,  300 

Bannister,    Charles,   317,  318, 

319 
Barnsanti,  Miss,  296,  298 
Barry,  Edward,  64 
Barry,  Elizabeth,  55,  58,  60,  61, 

64,   65,   66,  67,    68,  69,  no, 

112,  262 
Barry,  Mrs.  Spranger,  240,  316, 

317 
Barry,  Spranger,  197,  240,  241, 

247,  248,  259,  260,  314,  315, 

316 
Bedford,  Duke  of,  132 
Behn.  Mrs.,  74,  T02 
Bellamy,   Mrs.,  260,  261,  262, 

263 


Bensley,    William,    317,   318, 

319 
Bernard,  John,  215,  314,  315 
Betterton,  Matthew,  42 
Betterton,  Mrs.,  47,  48,  55,  60, 

106 
Betterton,  Thomas,  35,  36,  39, 
41,  42,  43,  46,  47,  48,  49,  50, 
51,  52,  53,  54,  55,  56,  57,  58, 
59,  60,  61,  62,  63,  64,  74,  83, 
85,  98,  105,  106,  no,  112,  114, 
120,   141,  145,  146,  151,  201, 
233,  235,  322 
Boaden,  James,  240 
Bolingbroke,  Lord,  150 
Bolton,  Duke  of,  173 
Booth,    Barton,   50,    104,    126, 
138,   150,  J51,   152,   180,  181, 
185,  186 
Booth,  Mrs.  {see  Santlow) 
Boswell,  James,  107,  128,  172, 

238,  239,  249,  250,  256,  296 
Boutelle,  Mrs.,  66 
Bowen,  William,  182,  183 
Bracegirdle,  Mrs.,   34,  58,  60, 
69,  70,  71,72,73.74,  no,  III, 
112,  135,   140,  201,  232,  246, 
322 
Brent,  Miss,  278,  279 
Brown,  a  dramatist,  192 
Bulkley,  Mrs.,  298 
Burbage,  James,  10 
Burbage,  Richard,  10,  15,  17 
Burke,  Edmund,  172 
Burlington,  Earl  of,  257 
Burlington,  Countess  of,  258 
Burney,  Dr.,  294 


325 


326 


INDEX. 


Byron,  Lord,  261 
Byrt,  actor,  23 


Campbell,  Thomas,  270 
Cartwright,  actor,  30 
Castlemaine,  Lady,  24,  25,  33, 

34 
Catharine,  of  Braganza,  34 
Centlivre,  Mrs.,  102 
Chapman,  Mr.,  235 
Charles  I.,  19,  64 
Charles  IL,  22,  23,  25,  26,  27, 

28,  29,  33,  34,  35,  47,  50,  53, 

79 

Chateauneuf,  Mile.,  193 

Cherrier,  Monsieur,  157 

Chesterfield,  Earl  of,  239,  240 

Chetwood,  W.  R.,  137,  145, 
147,  151,  194,  206 

Churchill,  Charles,  55,  179, 
269,  270,  271,  272,  302,  307 

Churchill,  General,  136,  137, 
140 

Cibber,  Colley,  25,  48,  55,  56, 
57,  66,  67,  68,  75,  78,  79,  80, 
92,  104,  105,  107,  108,  109, 
lio,  i]i,  112,  113,  114,  115, 
116,  117,  118,  119,  120,  121, 
122,  123,  124,  125,  126,  127, 
128,  129,  132,  133,  134,  135, 
136,  138,  139,  142,  143,  148, 
149,  157,  172,  174,  175,  176, 
186,  187,  188,  194,  207,  229, 
232,  236 

Cibber,  C.  G.,  108 

Cibber,  Mrs.,  188,  197,  236,  237, 
242,  244,  248,  259,  260,  279 

Cibber,  Theophilus,  187,  188, 
189,  190,  208,  229,  232,  235, 
236 

Clairon,  Mile.,  280 

Claxton,  Mr.,  91 

Clayton,  Mr.,  157 

Clinch,  actor,  296 

Clive,  Mrs.,  192,  193,  194,  195, 
212,  229,  232,  271 

Clun,  actor,  23,  30,  34 


Coldham,  Dr.,  209 
Coleman,  Dr.,  45 
Collier,  Jeremy,  39,  40,  41 
Collier,  William,  104,  121 
Coleman,  the  elder,  310,  311 
Coleman,   the  younger,    310, 

311 
Colson,  Rev.  Mr.,  222,  223,2^4 
Congreve,  William,  69,  95,  96, 

97,  98,  105,  106,  III,  112,  117 
Cook,  Captain,  45 
Cooke,  William,  202,  220 
Corneille,'38 
Crawford,  Mr.,  240 
Crawford,      Mrs.     {see     Mrs. 

Spr anger  Barry) 
Cromwell,  Oliver,  22,  47 
Cromwell,  Richard,  22 
Cross,  Richard,  55 
Cumberland,  Richard,  241,  255 
Cumberland,  Duke  of,  252 


Daly,  Augustin,  99 

Dancer,  Mrs.  {see  Mrs.  »Spran- 

ger  Barry) 
Davenant,  Charles,  54 
Davenant,  Lady,  64 
Davenant,  Sir  William,  23,  36, 

37,  39,  43,  44,  45,  46,  47,  5 1, 

52,  53,  54 
Davenport,  Mrs.,  48 
Davies,  Thomas,  55,  188,  193, 

225,  236,  243,  250,  253,  255, 

268,  276 
Davis,  Mrs.,  25,  33,  34,  52 
Del'Bpme,  Mrs.,  157,  159,  165, 

166 
Dennis,  John,  159,  160 
Derwentwater,  Earl  of,  34 
Devonshire,  Duke  of,  69,  109 
Dibdin,  Charles,  23,  36,  37,  38, 

54,  65,  TOO,  102,  188,  225,  228 
Dodd,  James,  300,  303 
Dogget,  Thomas,  94,  104,  114, 

115,  116,  121,  122,  123,  124, 

125,  126,  127,  143,  149,  150, 

212,  235 


INDEX. 


327 


Doran,  Dr.,  69,  261 
Dorset,  Duke  of,  69 
Downes,  John,  56 
Drew,  John,  99 
Drew,  Mrs,  John,  297 
Dryden,  John,  65,  67,  95 
Dunstal,  actor,  298 
Dunstall,  Mr.,  226,  228 
Du  Ruel,  M.,  157 
Du  Ruel,  Mrs.,  157 


El  ford,  Mrs.,  157 
Elizabeth,  Queen,  8,  13 
Bstcourt,  Richard,  58,  81,  82, 

121 

Evans,  acrobat,  91 
Evans,  Jack,  58 
Evelyn,  John,  29 


V 


Farquhar,  George,  99,  100,  101, 

131.  143 
Farren,  actor,  300 
Farren,  Miss,  263 
Fearou,  actor,  298 
Fenton,  Lavinia,  173 
Fielding,  Henry,  220 
Fitzgerald,  Percy,  230,  241 
Fitzherbert,  Mr.,  249,  250,  265 
Fitzpatrick,  Mr,,  274,  276,  277 
Fitzstephen,  William,  2 
Fleetwood,  Charles,  186,  187, 
188,  207,  208,   211,   212,  214, 
216,  217,  219,  235,  239 
Fletcher,  L.,  17 
Fletcher,  Sir  Robert,  255,  256 
Florence,  W.  J.,  297 
Fcote,  Samuel,  177,  224,  248, 
249,  251,  252,  253,  254,  255, 
256,  257,  270,  292,  310,  314, 

315 
Ford,  Richard,  282,  299 
Frederick,    Prince   ot   Wales, 

192,  193,  197 


G 


Garrick,  Captain,  222,  223,  224 

Garrick,  David,  41,  50,  63,  98, 

107,  108,  176,  181,   182,  195, 

196,  198,  201,  216,  217,  219, 

222,  223,  224,  226,  227,  228, 

229,  230,  231,  232,  233,  234, 

235,  236,  237,  238,  239,  240, 

241,  242,  243,  244,  245,  246, 

247,  248,  249,  253,  254,  255, 

256,  257,  258,  259,  260,  261, 

263,  264,  265,  267,  268,  269, 

271,  272,  273,  274,  275,  276, 

277,  278,  279,  280,  281,  282, 

283,  284,  285,  286,  288,  297, 

299.  300,  301,  304,  305,  306, 

307,  308,  309,  310,  311,  316, 

319,  320,  321,  322,  323 

GaiTick,  George,  279,  286,  309 

Garrick,  Mrs.  (Captain),  225 

Garrick,    Mrs.     (David),    257, 

258,  279,  280,  309 
Garrick,  Peter,  224,  225 
Gasperini,  Sigiior,  91 
Gawdry,  actor,  300 
Gay,  John,  172,  173,  174 
Geoffrey,  monk,  3 
George  I.,  172,  184 
George  11.,  128,  191,  215,  257, 

265,  268,  269 
George  III.,  192,  193,  201,  280, 

293,  320 
Giffard,  Mr.,  226,  228,  231 
Gildon,  Charles,  42,  43 
Glenville,  Mr.,  218 
Godwin,  William,  307 
Goldsmith,  Oliver,  188,  272 
Goodman,  Cardell,  32,  33,  11 1 
Gosson,  Rev.  Dr.,  14 
Grafton,    Duke   of,    216,    217, 

265 
Greber,  Herr,  165 
Green,  Mrs.,  296,  298 
Grindal,  Archbishop,  8 
Gwynne,  Eleanor,   26,  27,  28, 
29,  52 


328 


INDEX, 


H 
Haines,  Joseph,  30,  31,  32 
Halifax,  Earl  of,  69 
Halhead,  Mr.,  290,  291,  293 
Hallam,    Thomas,    207,     208, 

209,  210 
Handel,  G.  F.,  170,  171 
Harper,  John,  58 
Harris,  Henry,  46,  48,  50,   52, 

53 
Harris,  manager,  287 
Hart,  Charles,   23,  24,   25,  27, 

29,  30,  31 
Havard,  actor,  270 
Hazlitt,  William,  321 
Henderson,    John,     308,    309, 

310.  311 
Henrietta  Maria,  Queen,  19 
Henry  VII.,  5 
Henry  VIII.,  5,  7 
Heywood,  John,  5,  6 
Highmore,  John,  186,  206 
Hill,  Aaron,  171,  190,  191 
Hill,  Captain,  70,  71 
Hill,  Dr.,  272,  273 
Hogarth,  George,  168 
Hopkins,  Miss,  300,  303 
Hopkins,  prompter,  303 
Hudson,  George,  45 
Hughes,  Mrs.,  30 
Hughes,  poet,  159. 
Hungerford,  Justice,  184 


Irving,  Henry,  87 

J 

Jackson,  William,  292 

James  I.,  17 

James  IL,  28,  31,  32,  33,  35,  50, 
109,  194 

Jefferson,  Joseph,  297 

Johnson,  actor,  182 

Johnson,  Dr.,  107,  108,  128, 
144,  172,  173,  194.  222,  223, 
224,  238,  239,  245,  247,  248, 
249,  250,  251,  262,  268,  291, 
296,  308 

Jonson,  Ben,  16,  17,  18 


K 

Kean,  Edmund,  41,  201,  306 
Kelly,  Michael,  316 
Kemble,  John  Philip,  303 
Killigrew,  Thomas,  23,  39,  47, 

53 
King,  Thomas,  300,  301 
Kirkman,  J.  T.,  202 
Knipp,  Mrs.,  24,  25,  28,  53 
Kynaston,  Edward,  25,  26,  43, 

55,  105,  lib,  III 


L'Abbee,  M.,  157 

Lacey,  John,  27,  34 

Lacy,  James,  219,  240,  243,  279 

lyamash,  actor,  300 

Ivamb,  Charles,  301 

Lane,  Jack,  12 

Laws,  Harry,  45 

Lee,  actor,  296 

Lee,  Nathaniel,  65,  66,  67 

Lennox,  Lady  Sarah,  320 

Leicester,  Earl  of,  10 

Leigh,  Anthony,  79,  105 

Lessingham,  Mrs.,  298 

Lewes,  Lee,  298 

Lewis,  William,  296,  298 

Lilleston,  Thomas,  46,  48 

Linley,    Miss,    288,    291,    292, 

293,  294,  295,  296 

Linley,  Thomas,  282,  288,  292, 

294,  295,  298 
London,  gardener,  165 
Long,  R.  W.,  292 
Louis  XIV.,  102,  T94 
Lovelace,  Lord,  69 
Lovell,  Thomas,  46 
Lowen,  John,  52 
Lucan,  Lord,  305 
Luther,  7 

M 

Macaulay,  T.  B.,  69,  70 

Macklin,    Charles,    186,     200, 

201,  202,  203,  204,  205,  206, 

207,  208,  209,  210,  211,  212, 

213,  214,  215,  216,  217,  218, 


INDEX. 


329 


219,  220,  221,  224,  226,  235, 

239,  268,  269 
Macklin,  Mary,  219 
Macklin,  Mrs.,  206 
Manley,  Mrs.,  102 
Mancini,  Francesco,  166 
Maria,   Theresa,    of   Austria, 

257 
Marlborough,    Duke    of,    82, 

201 
Marlborough,  Henrietta, 

Duchess  of,  97 
Marlborough,  Sarah,  Duchess 

of,  97 
Mary   (Stuart),    Princess    and 

Queen,  48,  68,  74,  11 1 
Mary  (Tudor),  Queen,  8 
Marshall,  Mrs.,  24,  25 
Mathews,  Captain,  2^3,  294 
Mayn  waring,  Arthur,  136,  137, 

140 
Mclyoughlin,  William,  201 
Milward,  Mr.  192 
Misson,  Henri,  104 
Mohun,  Lord,  70,  71 
Mohun,  Major,  23,  30 
Monk,  General,  22,  43 
Monmouth,  Duke  of,  32 
Montague,  Mr.,  257 
Moody,  John,  275,  276,  277 
Moore,  Thomas,  288,  299 
Morselli,  A.,  160 
Moseley,  John,  46 
Moss,  Mrs.,  157 
Mossop,  Henry,  263,  311,  312, 

313,  314 
Mostings,  Sir  R.,  140,  141 
Mounet-Sully,  M.,  238 
Mountford,  Mrs.,  71,  75,  76,  77, 

78,  I33>  135 
Mountford,   William,    34,    55, 

71,  74,  75,  110,  146,  241 
Murphy,  Arthur,  254 


N 


Napoleon  Buonaparte,  201 
Newton,    Rev.    Thomas,    234, 
235 


Nicolini,  Signor,  161,  162,  165, 

166,  168,  169 
Nokes,  James,  34,   46,  79,   80, 

235 
Nokes,  Robert,  46 


Odell,  Thomas,  228 

O'Keefe,  John,  218,  312,  313 

Oldfield,  Captain,  135 

Oldfield,  Mrs.,  41,  71,  120,  121, 
130,  131,  132,  133,  134,  135, 
136,  137,  138,  I39»  140.  141, 
142,  143,  185,  246,  323 

Ormond,  Duke  of,  147 

Orrery,  Lord,  65,  233 

Otway,  Thomas,  65,  67,  68,  ill 

Oxford,  Barl  of,  50 


Packer,  actor,  300 

Page,  Mr.,  70 

Palmer,  John,  300,  302,  303 

Parma,  Duke  of,  280 

Parr,  Dr.,  289 

Parry,  B.  A.,  208 

Parsons,  actor,  300 

Pepusch,  Dr.,  165,  172 

Pepys,  Samuel,  24,  25,  27,  28, 

29.  33,  34,  35,  48,  50,  51,  52, 

53 
Phillipes,  A.,  17 
Pierce,  Mrs.,  28,  53 
Pinkethman,  William,  61,  91 
Pix,  Mrs.,  102 
Pope,  A.  (the  actor),  320 
Pope,  Alexander,  103,  126,  128, 

130,  150,  192,  200,  232,  233 
Pope,  Mrs.,  221,  317,  319,  320, 

321,  322 
Pope,  Miss,  300 
Porter,  Mrs.,  137 
Powell,  George,  59,  82,  83,  112, 

113,  114,  151 
Powell,  William,  280 
Price,  Joseph,  50 
Prince  Rupert,  30 


330 


INDEX. 


Pritchard,  Mrs.,  235,  242,  244, 

248,  308 
Prynne,  William,  19,  20 


Queensbury,  Duke  of,  172 
Quick,  John,  296,  297,  298 
Quin,  James,  172,  178,  179, 
180,  181,  182,  183,  184,  185, 
186,  187,  188,  189,  190,  191, 
192,  193,  194,  195,  196,  197, 
198,  199,  209,  210,  211,  212, 
224,  236,  242,  270 

R 

Raftor,  see  Clive 

Rehau,  Ada,  99 

Reynolds,  Frederick,  195,  283, 

284,  285,  303,  304 
Reynolds,  Miss,  282,  316 
Reynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  172,  300 
Rhodes,  J.,  22,  4?,  43 
Rich,  Chr.,  104,   105,  112,  119, 

120,  121,  131,  132,   146,  164, 

176 
Rich,  John,  172,  173,  174,  176, 

177,  180,  181,  184,  187,  189, 

197,  206,  219,  241,  243,  244, 

259 
Richards,  Mr.,  144,  145 
Rochester,  Earl  of,  29,  64,  68 
Rolt,  Captain,  53 
Rossi,  poet,  1 71 
Rowe,  Nicholas,  loi,  102 
Rowley,  William,  29 
Ryan,  Lacy,  181,  184,  193,  197, 

198,  242 
Ryder,  Mr.,  221 


Sabbatini,  258 

Sanford,  Samuel,  34,  55,  80,  81, 

105 
Santlow,  Miss,  152 
Saunderson,    Mrs.    {see    Mrs. 

Betterton) 
Savage,  Richard,  139,  142,  143, 

J44 


Scarborough,  Lord,  317 
Schlegel,  A.  W.,  6 
Shakespeare,  5,  14,  17,  iS,  52, 

56,  80,  245,  282 
Sheppey,  Thomas,  46 
Sheridan,  Charles,  293 
Sheridan,  Dr.,  288 
Sheridan,  Mrs.,  288,  289 
Sheridan,  R.  B.,  268,  278,  282, 

287,  288,  289,  290,  291,  292, 

293,  294,  295,  296,  298,  299, 

302,  303,  304,  305 
Sheridan,   Thomas,    219,   239, 

240,  268,  269,  288,  290,  296, 

311,  312 
Sherry,  Miss,  300 
Shuter,  Edward,  296,  297 
Siddons,  Mrs.,  306,  308,  317 
Smith,  William,  55,  105 
Smith,  Joseph,  158 
Smith,  William,  300,  302 
Smollett,  T.,  198 
Southern,  Thomas,  117 
Stampiglio,  composer,  157 
Steele,  Sir  R.,  82,  88,  92,  93, 

103,  104,   126,   148,   158,  160, 

161 
Still,  John,  6 
Subligni,  Mile.,  91 
Sumner,  Dr.  R.,  289 
Sunderland,  Lord,  105 
Swift,  Dean,  134,  288 
Swiney,  Owen,   106,    120,   121, 

157 

T 

Talbot,  Countess  of,  258 
Taswell,  actor,  265 
Terry,  Ellen,  138,  246 
Tofts,  Mrs.,  157,  158,  159,  165 
Trotter,  Mrs.,  102 
Tudor,  Mary,  34 
Turner,  Robert,  46 
Tyrawley,  Lord,  261 

U 

Udall,  Nicholas,  6 
Underbill,    Cave,    46,    55,    79, 
106 


INDEX. 


331 


Valentini,  Siguor,  166 
Vanbrugh,   Sir  John,  98,   105, 

106,  118,  120,  131,  132 
Verbruggen,  John,  71 
Verbruggen,    Mrs.    {see    Mrs. 

Mounlford) 
Verdi,  G.,  156 
Victor,  Benjamin,  273,  274 
Violante,  Madame,  246 
Violette,  Eva  Maria  {see  Mrs. 

Garrick) 
Voltaire,  96 
Voss   Mrs.,  131 

W 

Wagner,  R.,  156 
Walker,  Thomas,  173,  184 
Walmsley,  Gilbert,  222,  223 
Walpole,    Horace,     195,    222, 

247,  257,  258,  300,  301 
Walpole,  Lady  Mary,  137 
Walpole,  Sir  R.,  137,  191,  215 
Walsingham,  Sir  F.,  13 
Warrington,  Earl  of,  150 
Watkins,  Dr.  John,  305 
Wewitzer,  Ralph,  318 
Whitehead,  P.,  207 


Whitlock,  Lord,  44 

Wicks,  actor,  58 

Wilde,  O.,  117 

Wilkinson,  Tate,  262,  263,  266, 
267,  313,  314,  315,  316,  317 

Wilks,  Robert,  62,75,  100,  loi, 
104,  120,  121,  122,  123,  124, 
125,  126,  143,  144,  145,  146, 
147,  148,  149,  180,  185,  194 

William  of  Orange,  33,  102, 
109,  201 

Wilson,  actor,  12 

Wintersel,  Mr.,  23 

Wise,  gardener,  165 

Woffington,  Mrs.,  41,  219,  224, 
235,  245,  246,  247,  248,  261, 
262,  266,  267,  314,  315,  323 

Wollstonecraft,  Mary,  307 

Woodward,  H.,  296,  297 

Wotton,  Sir  H.,  15,  16 

Wren,  Sir  Chr.,  54,  55 

Wycherley,  281 


Yates,  R. ,  300,  302 
Yates,  Mrs.,  306,  307,  308,  321 
York,  Duke  of  {see  James  11. ) 
Younge,  Miss  {sec  Mrs.  Pope) 


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